You had heard, and so the story ran

You had heard, and so the story ran. From where

The hills begin to rise, and then sink the ridge

In a gentle slope, down to the waters edge. Who would

Strew the turf with flowery herbage,

Or curtain the springs with green shade?

Who would sing to the Nymphs?

Can any man be guilty of such a crime?

Singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars,

Heifers browse on clover,

And swell their udders, to my song.

The Pierian maids have made a poet,

But, however, I trust them not.

I sing nothing worthy of my Emily;

Cackle as a goose among melodious Sparrows,

And here by the flowing streams,

Earth scatters her varied concaved hues;

Here white Orchids bend over cave,

Vines weave shady bowers.

Come to me; let the wild waves lash the shore.

You've heard me singing alone,

Beneath the cloudless night. My measure bathed

In loves sway; do you keep my words?

Why art, do I gaze at old constellations rising?

The stars to make fields glad with corn;

And gift grape upon the sunny hills.

Time robs us of all, even of memory; oft as a boy

I recall that song I would lay the long

Summer days to rest. Even voice itself now fails me,

Now the whole sea-plain lies still,

And eerily silent; every breath of the murmuring breeze is dead.

My last task this…, to win my dove.

Relieve me of this burden!

Can I trust my streaming eyes?

Or do lovers fashion their own dreams?

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