O my precious flower of amethyst,
Who blooms in the early spring,
And whose dreadful fate befalls him fast
For any of my everlasting love to last.
To you I will go forth and sing,
As once did my lord, the Sun King,
Of your amaranthine beauty, by which I am bewitched.

By the hands of the West Wind did you fall,
Where you withered in front of your god of light.
For I, your death was my most tragic loss.
But if I had stopped that discus in toss,
I would have prevented this plight
From ever befalling my sight,
And never would I have listened to you wrawl.

To the Messenger did the Sun King flee for comfort,
But I, without you, had no one to go.
Even in death, your fairness remains,
In the shape of the hyacinth, forever contained.
My love for you still overflows,
Even amidst all the woe,
But now, alone, I shall go into summer.