From his lips the nightingale hath learned her song,
And his rouge hath brightened the cheek of the rose.
‘Tis his passion burns in the heart of the moth, 695
‘Tis he that lends glowing hues to love-tales.
Sea and land are hidden within his water and clay,[58]
A hundred new worlds are concealed in his heart.
Ere tulips blossomed in his brain
There was heard no note of joy or grief. 700
His music breathes o’er us a wonderful enchantment,
His pen draws a mountain with a single hair.