And spake, as o'er it shone

That bright Pentameron,

And his own vines again and chestnuts heard

Boccaccio: nor swift Elsa's chime

Mixed not her golden babble with Petrarca's rhyme.

39.

No lovelier laughed the garden which receives

Yet, and yet hides not from our following eyes

With soft rose-laurels and low strawberry-leaves,

Ternissa, sweet as April-coloured skies,

Bowed like a flowering reed when May's wind heaves

The reed-bed that the stream kisses and sighs,

In love that shrinks and murmurs and believes

What yet the wisest of the starriest wise

Whom Greece might ever hear

Speaks in the gentlest ear

That ever heard love's lips philosophize

With such deep-reasoning words

As blossoms use and birds,

Nor heeds Leontion lingering till they rise

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