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I: Held high, the nemesis allied unconscious butterflies Hung against the enormous drab drowsy flowers of cloud.Your soul is a select landscape Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go Playing the lute and dancing and almost Sad beneath their fantastic disguises. All sing in a minor key Of victorious love and the opportune life, They do not seem to believe in their happiness And their song mingles with the moonlight,
With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful, That sets the birds dreaming in the trees And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy. The tall slender fountains among marble statues.
