English

I dreamt that I was running
With wings upon my shoulders;
And that Eros, having lead-weights
On his pretty little ankles,
Ran after me and caught me.
What might this dream betoken?
As for me, I think that having
In many loves been tangled,
And from all escaped in safety,
By this new one I am fettered.

All morning I believe
In my own song;
But all afternoon, my faith
Is not so strong,—

Yet, every evening,
Hope comes back again…
Read, Oracle, to me,
The riddle plain!

The thrush sings at matins,
And at vespers, clear,
But not through the broad day,
Any time of year.

The moon pursues her stealthy course,
The shades grow gray upon the hill,
Silence has fallen on the stream,
Fresh from the valley blows the wind;
The songster of spring days has hushed
His notes in waste of gloomy groves,
The herds are couched along the fields,
And calm the flight of midnight hour.

And night the peaceful ingle-nook
Has with her misty livery clad;
In stove the flames have ceased to dart,
And candle down to socket burned;
The saintly face of household gods
Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,

XCI

The knot which first my heart did strain
When that your servant I became
Doth bind me still for to remain
Always your own, as now I am;
And if ye find that I do feign,
With just judgement myself I damn
To have disdain.

If other thought in me do grow
But still to love you steadfastly,
If that the proof do not well show
That I am yours assuredly,
Let every wealth turn me to woe
And you to be continually
My chiefest foe.

If other love or new request
Do seize my heart but only this,

As nurs'd by warmer suns, and milder showers
In fair Italia's vales the orange blows;
Heavy at once with fruit, and gay with flowers,
The richness of the year she all together shows;

Thus, e'er the blossom of her youth is o'er,
Two smiling infants grace Maria's side;
More lovely fruit than all Pomona's store,
Her ruddy orchards, or her golden pride!

Less fair, twin apples blushing on a bough,
On whose smooth cheek the ripening summer glows,
Or those which broke fleet Atalanta's vow,

Those there be who toil,
Treading the frozen midnight,
While at ease I sit
Warm through the long night-hours
Close to my braiser fire.

Queen of the golden bow, Dian, I sing,
The much-lov'd sister of the Archer-king,
Loosing the arrow from the twanging string;
The steepy rocks and woodland walks among,
Dealing destruction mid the sylvan throng:
And while the fatal arrows fly around,
The echoing shades with bestial cries resound.
The trembling earth and seas their fear avow,
Firm treads the goddess of the golden bow;
On every side a deadly shaft she speeds,
By every shaft a destin'd victim bleeds;
Till, sated with the sport, the Archer-maid,

On my head-gear
Without plaint I bear
My snow load of care.

Each fickle art you try in vain
A constant breast to move;
For she who would be lov'd again,
Herself must learn to love.

Lay quietly Thy kingly head
O mighty weakness from on high;
God rest Thee in Thy manger-bed—
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—
O Splendour hid from every eye!—
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!

“Ye mild and humble cattle, yield
Room for my little son to lie;
Your God and mine is here revealed—
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—
Naked beneath a naked sky—
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!

“Deal kindly with Him, moon and sun;
No bird to Him a song deny;
Ye winds and showers every one
Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—