Early-singer, evil herald to the sad lover, thrice-accursed, in the night you screech out your din and flap your wings, proud on your perch, when I have but little of the night for love; and you guffaw at my complaints!
Does your owner enjoy your music? By the high Dawn, you have shrieked your piercing song for the last time!

O pipes of the goatherds, sing no more in the hills of Daphnis to please Pan, the lover of goats; and, O lyre, interpreter of Phoebus, sing no more of Hyacinthus crowned with virgin laurel.
This indeed might be when Daphnis lived in the hills, when Hyacinthus was lovely to you; but now Dion holds the sceptre of the Desires.

At noon I saw Alexis walking in the road when Summer shears the tresses of the wheat.
Two rays of fire burned me; the first, Love's from his eyes, the other from the sun which night will soon appease, but in dreams the image of his beauty will but burn me the more.
Sleep, that brings peace to others, brings pain to me, creating beauty, a living flame in my heart.

Pain begins to touch my heart; warm Love, as he wandered idly, chafed it with his finger-tops and said, laughing: " Once more you have a sweet wound, O unhappy lover, burned with the soft and the sharp! "
And then seeing among the young men Diophantus, like an olive branch, I could neither go nor stay still.

In a dream at night Love brought me under one cover a girl, softly-laughing and still dressed; and as I held her slight body against my heart I gathered to me — vain hopes.
The memory of desire burns me and at night I have ever the fugitive of my dream before my eyes.
O my soul, O unhappy lover, cease to burn in vain dreams for this figment of beauty.

A quatrain fills a little space,
Although it's pretty small,
And oftentimes, as in this case,
It has no point at all.

Thro orchard plots with fragrance crowned
The clear cold fountain murmuring flows;
And forest leaves with rustling sound
Invite to soft repose.

If my spirit yearned and my great heart burned for the feel of the open road,
If my soul were sick of the bailiwick and my back were bent with the load,
If I tasted the taint of the city's paint and I craved the meadow sweet,
If I felt the appeal of the yielding feel of the young earth under my feet,
If I longed for the free and the open sea and the salt spray on my cheek,
If I'd wishing pains for the Western plains and the wild coyote's shriek —
Should I be here writing insincere old stuff that the yearners sing

I Wonder not my Laeda farre can see,
Since for her eyes shee might an Eagle bee,
And dare the Sun; but that shee heares so well
As that shee could my private whisperings tell,
I stand amaz'd; her eares are not so long,
That they could reach my words; hence then it sprung:
Love overhearing fled to her bright eare,
Glad he had got a tale to whisper there.

Monday's child is sad of face;
Tuesday's child will lose the race;
Wednesday's child has a row to hoe;
Thursday's child is full of woe;
Friday's child has futile strife;
Saturday's child has a mournful life;
While the child that's born on the Sabbath day
Will find that life is dull and gray.