Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.
No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.
When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me and a trembling seizes me all over.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.
Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.
Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.