The Lovers' Walk
Near this dark cave where we breathe so soft an air, the water battles with the stones and the light with the shade.
The waters wearied with the struggle among the pebbles rest in this pool where Narcissus died of yore.
'Tis a mirror where the Faun comes to see if his scarlet hue has turned to yellow since Love has caught him.
The images of that vermilion flower and of these bending reeds seem like dreams within the sleeping water.
Never yet has hunter come to this wood and these hills. If ever the horn is sounded 'tis by Dian and her train.
This ancient oak has holy marks; doubtless were it cut the warm blood would flow and the tree would utter cries of pain.
This nightingale, melancholy at the remembrance of her woe, attempts to charm her grief by making musical her story.
In all these heavenly ways the Nymphs dance to their songs and grant the shrubs the grace to bring forth flowers without thorns.
Do you not hear the West Wind sigh, caught with the wonder and the love, seeing the roses in your face which are not of his kingdom?
His perfumed mouth has breathed upon our path, mingling the soul of jasmine with the amber of your gentle breath.
Bow your head above this pool whose crystal seems so black: I would have you see there the loveliest thing in the world.
The waters wearied with the struggle among the pebbles rest in this pool where Narcissus died of yore.
'Tis a mirror where the Faun comes to see if his scarlet hue has turned to yellow since Love has caught him.
The images of that vermilion flower and of these bending reeds seem like dreams within the sleeping water.
Never yet has hunter come to this wood and these hills. If ever the horn is sounded 'tis by Dian and her train.
This ancient oak has holy marks; doubtless were it cut the warm blood would flow and the tree would utter cries of pain.
This nightingale, melancholy at the remembrance of her woe, attempts to charm her grief by making musical her story.
In all these heavenly ways the Nymphs dance to their songs and grant the shrubs the grace to bring forth flowers without thorns.
Do you not hear the West Wind sigh, caught with the wonder and the love, seeing the roses in your face which are not of his kingdom?
His perfumed mouth has breathed upon our path, mingling the soul of jasmine with the amber of your gentle breath.
Bow your head above this pool whose crystal seems so black: I would have you see there the loveliest thing in the world.
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