Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees
May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.
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.
There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.
Now the Earth with many flowers puts on her spring embroidery
Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.