Sonnets, Etc, X

In order to restrain this mad desire, Impossible and rash, and thus to miss The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire, Still fail to see what safety would require, Me as I am, too timid or too bold, In such confusion that I dare not hold The reins of that which sets my soul on fire; What can it serve to see the pictured tale Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name And celebration to the Icarian seas; Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?