Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.
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.
I would not think to touch the sky with two arms
Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.
The evening star Is the most beautiful of all stars
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.