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| O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers! ’Mid which my pensive queen her footstep sets; O plain, that hold’st her words for amulets And keep’st her footsteps in thy leafy bowers! O trees, with earliest green of springtime hours, And all spring’s pale and tender violets! O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets His blithe rays gild the outskirts of thy towers! O pleasant country-side! O limpid stream, That mirrorest her sweet face, her eyes so clear, And of their living light canst catch the beam! I envy thee her presence pure and dear. There is no rock so senseless but I deem It burns with passion that to mine is near. |
