Incense that will not rise to heaven unfired;
By that same vernal spirit uninspired
That sends the blood up from the heart, and speaks
In the rekindled lustre of the cheeks?
Chorus. Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving
Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
Song.
Lo the golden Girasolé,
That to him by whom she burns,
Over heaven slowly, slowly,