O Bandusian fount, clearer than crystal glass,
Meritorious of blossoms in sweet merlot,
Take this kid on the morrow
Whose head swells with an early horn
That would meet, in a clash, goats but alas, revered,
It will not; he will dye red hoary rivulets
Run with blood from the sprouted
Lineage of a playful flock.
The unbearable slow hour of eternity
Does not know how to touch you, who are proffering
Swift, sweet cold to the vagrant
Herd and plow-beaten cow as well.
Your nobility I make, singing verse of the
Hollows growing up oaks set in the empty stones
Whence loquacious nymphs come
Trickling down in a dance to you.