To me the Muses truly gave / An envied and a happy lot: / E'en when I lie within the grave, / I cannot, shall not, be forgot.
Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.
The Moon and Pleiades have set, / Midnight is nigh, / The time is passing, passing, yet / Alone I lie.
Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees
Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.
Now the Earth with many flowers puts on her spring embroidery