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.
Love shook my heart/ Like the wind on the mountain/ Troubling the oak-trees
Love - bittersweet, irrepressible - loosens my limbs and I tremble.
Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.
How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.