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Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. "Here at this fountain's sliding foot, Or at the fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
"Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light." There were many beautiful shrubs and bushes coming into bloom around us as we drifted down the stream.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. How well the skilful gardener drew, Of flowers and herbs, this dial new!
Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. "Here at this fountain's sliding foot, Or at the fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
Persons of modest means are satisfied if they can keep burning the sacred fire over Christmas Day; and as to the very poor, their cacho-fiò is no more than a bit of a fruit-tree's branch that barely, by cautious guarding, will burn until the midnight of Christmas Eve.
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