If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? The bird, as if my question did her move, With trembling wings sobbed forth, ‘I love! I love!'
End of title
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