and my hot tears mean nothing
to him who was dearer to me
than Daphne, he whose clear eye,
that dazed the sun, now droops near earth....
O hyacinthine flower, grow here!
Sweet were his lips as a flower touching
the feet of a bee in Spring, his lips
would repeat the word, “Love, love,”
all that was sweet in the world was reborn.
Death could not defeat him,