As when the gracious moon climbs up the sky,
Drenching parched fields with dew on summer eves,
The murmuring brook, 'twixt low banks rippling by,
Of her white beams a silvery network weaves:

The secret nightingale among the leaves
Fills the vast calm with throbbing melody,
So sweet th' entranced wayfarer half believes
Time is not, and his fair-haired love seems nigh;

And the bereaved mother who wept in vain
Beside a grave is soothed and comforted,
When the grey dawn doth over heaven shine:

Mountains and distant sea smile out again,
A fresh breeze stirs the branches overhead:
Such is thy verse to me, O poet divine.