So bright,
                                     Their light rosy flesh, that it hovers in the air
                                     Drowsy with tangled slumbers.

                                                                             Did I love a dream?
                                     My doubt, hoard of ancient night, is crowned
                                     In a many a subtle branch, which, remaining the true
                                     Woods themselves, proves, alas! that alone I offered
                                     Myself as a triumph the perfect sin of roses.

                                     Let us reflect ...
                                                           or if the women you describe
                                     Represent a desire of your fabulous senses!
                                     Faun, the illusion flows from the cold blue eyes
                                     Of the most chaste like a spring of tears:
                                     But the other, all sighs, do you say she contrasts
                                     Like the warm day's breeze in your fleece?
                                     But no! through the still and weary rapture
                                     Stifling the cool morning with heat should it struggle,
                                     No water murmurs unless poured by my flute
                                     On the thicket sprinkled with melody; and the
                                     Only wind, quick to escape the twin pipes before
                                     Scattering the sound in an arid rain, is,
                                     On the smooth untroubled surface of the horizon,
                                     The visible and serene artificial breath
                                     Of inspiration returning to the sky.