|—Divine fortune, that she should pluck you from the stem!|
Your rivals toss their petals; the shock of severance past,
New bliss of union settles
Upon your life, whose gem Shines perfectly at last.
My heart, though it found love in feeling hearts it its vassal—
This heart of mine, pride of the garden of my youth,
Could never flower-like nestle in the desired one’s breast,
Nor ever feel the smooth touch of the shimmering vest.
No springtime shall come freighting its leaves with April’s luck,
It withers in this waiting for her who comes to pluck.