Classic Poem

Now that the swift sun burns the pasture in his middle heat, lead your snowy flock to the valley, Ligunia. Here are singing birds; a glittering stream flows from the cave and a shadow falls from the close-set oaks; round about flowers whisper and the air of Zephyrus murmurs with gentle note. Here, delicate one, my pipe shall speak your praises; do you sing the secret delights of Dryads on your reed.