To learn its sudden changes I have paid     

       The skill'dest men in all our Tuscan vales,     

       Harpists, lute-players, masters of the viol,     

       To make soft music while on her I gaze.     

       For her content I ordered to be made     

       A fountain in the courtyard of my house     

       Whose waters falling, ere they dash to spray,     

       Smite on smooth spheres, which thus revolve and     

       hum     

       The chaunt the winds toll in our upland pines.     

       About the fountain's brink I caused to plant     

       Pale iris roots and dew-blanched narcissi,     

       Since white's the flower which most of all she loves.     

       Also about the pillars, where the sun     

       Lengthens the shadows when the evening fades,     

       I've sculptured . . .     

  

 [Someone sings in the street below] 

       Passion's a flower     

       While-leaf d or red—     

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