Short Poems

When la bella Simonetta was borne forth on her black bier, and loveliness still breathed from her dead face, the Love-God seized that hour, when no man dreaded him, to cast a thousand rays from her closed eyes.
He took captive a thousand souls with her form and exclaimed (exulting over Death): " She is still mine. " " She is still mine, " said Love; " Not yet, O Death, canst thou take her utterly. Even in death she is mine. " And then Love moaned, for now he sees no more days of triumph, but of tears.

So Sleep has flown to find thee, tender Love,
Proud Sleep that sat upon the lids of Jove.
Would thou wert all mine own, would I were Sleep;
I'd want not wings into thine eyes to creep.

Lady of the great sea — whose star governs the winds from either shore of the sea and shines to mariners when they stretch forth their sails — from your white house at Laurentum calm the Adriatic waves; let your winds give us safe voyaging lest Auster overwhelm us with his storms.
And when we come to the harbour of our country we will fulfil our vows to you with added gifts. Along the whole shore your altars shall be gladdened with praise and incense.

Golden Aurora had drawn away the shadows; she had hidden the falling stars with the rose-red glow of her face. Then the sun, lifting his chariot from the eastern foam, revealed the great world with his lustrous torch.
Suddenly Proteus rose from the Adriatic waves; and then came Cymothea, shaking free her yellow hair, Hyale, Arethusa, white of arm — Nereids marvelling at the poet.
Like the wind upon the shore, they plucked dark berries, pale violets, and soft hyacinths; and then they gathered about him, beseeching his song.

The maiden is dying; the glory withers from her rose-red face.
As a purple hyacinth in a secret valley, fed by the Earth our mother, by her drawn up with dew and happy winds — if once the heat of the sky or bitter Auster fall upon it, then, spoiled of the joyful pride of beauty, it droops and dies upon the parched grasses.
Unwonted griefs are in the meadows and the hayswathes rot in the desolate fields. Christ-thorns grow where the violet was. The white lilies wither from the drooping stem. No berries colour the lush river bank; in meadow and wood is neither grass nor leaf.

The creaking cart climbs
up over
The cambered flinty road.

The Road is the eastern rim so wide
The flints are the jutty hills so tall,
But the noise is sight in the eye so small
That waggon may no man behold.

As a small tender shapely flower in the breast of the cherishing earth puts forth clear petals if the dew and the rain minister to it, so does my tender soul blossom when the Holy Spirit feeds me with sweet dew.
If this be lacking, it droops as a flower upon barren ground unnourished by dew and rain.

The Morning Star flies from the clouds and the bird cries to the dawn.
Amaryllis, awake! Lead your snowy sheep to pasture while the cold grass glitters with white dew.
Today I will pasture my goats in a shady valley, for later it will be very hot.
Among those distant hills lies a very great valley cut by a fair stream.
Here there are cold rills and soft pasture and the kind wind engenders many-coloured flowers.
Dear, there I shall be alone, and if you love me, there you will come alone also.

Winter departs; the forest is dressed again with shining leaves and white Flora leads the dances.
The North wind yields to the West. Now, Amaryllis, we can pasture our flocks in the secluded wood and gather the secret pleasures of Aphrodite.
Honour the goddess, deck her with new garlands and let a lamb soak her holy altars!

Noble Farnese, since you journey near, disdain not to visit your Iolas. The green wood calls you and the chattering waters of the stream call also. The little farm, which you gave, makes ready to greet you.
Noble lad, turn not from this lowly door; remember that Jove himself often visited the huts of shepherds.