To make soft music while on her I gaze.
For her content I ordered to be made
A fountain in the courtyard of my house
Whose waters falling, ere they dash to spray,
Smite on smooth spheres, which thus revolve and
hum
The chaunt the winds toll in our upland pines.
About the fountain's brink I caused to plant
Pale iris roots and dew-blanched narcissi,
Since white's the flower which most of all she loves.