Slip your stockings off,
and joyously tread through the cold  grass in the evening shade,
The greenhouses shine like Arabian palaces amongst raspberry thickets.

Was the garden always this green?
Pale skirted, plum lipped,
We slip into a silken strawberry dream,
Dosing as the wind tosses our hair to and fro.

He murmurs: shall I compare thee to a summer day?
We take our pearls off and swim,
Shining and pale,
Carried away like willow leaves upon silver currents.

A bachannalian cry rings out amongst teeming masses of stars.
Kiss me amongst the apple trees,
Make moss your pillow and bumblebees your teddy bears.