When the clear fountain in the moonbeam glimmers
I think of thee....
I hear thee, when the tossing waves' low rumbling
Creeps up the hill;
I go to the lone wood and listen trembling
When all is still....
So Petrarch sings in Ode 15:
Now therefore, when in youthful guise I see
The world attire itself in soft green hue,
I think that in this age unripe I view