Who tends these flowers, sweet maiden of mine?
A soft touch do you use, or do you cut
Your stems deep? In Athens garden; along silvery waves,
Even poppies, even the dewy tamarisks, duly inquire.
And I'll pluck you, O laurels, and you neighbouring myrtle.
I beg your pardon; open your gates, fling wide,
My delicate Muse, speak those stories you
Gently gift, memory, your forte also; for a poet,
I am your poet; unmask hard effort to vision your eyes.
A burdening task to cause clouds to weep, weep too
The drooping lilacs, crimson roses even bow
Their leafy heads towards the soiled earth.
Damp Nights bright torch visits her love
On the Oceans depths; abandoning her steeds;
Eternal sleep covers eternally his punished eyes.
Too much; too much do I miss of swimming
In your chestnut pools; which my sight always loved.
To bathe in clear springs; on either side, to be touched on
The temple by sleeps ivory wand; too drift into dreams.
Do you tend this garden, lovely young girl, is it you,
Who gently prunes these thousand petals, Emily?
An essence divine, for you, the Nymphs perfume the air
Like these flowers; baskets full, you care for. Let
The woods beyond all else please you and me. May
Your powers, my casualty, last long: till the burning sun,
Sees conquered love underneath his blue skies.