I found myself one day all, all alone,
  For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

  Her song it was so tender and so clear
    That all the world listened with love; then I
  With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near,
    Her golden head and golden wings could spy,
    Her plumes that flashed like rubies ’neath the sky,
  Her crystal beak and throat and bosom’s zone.

  I found myself one day all, all alone,
  For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

  Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love;
    But arrow-like she soared, and through the air
  Fled to her nest upon the boughs above;
    Wherefore to follow her is all my care,
    For haply I might lure her by some snare
  Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.

  I found myself one day all, all alone,
  For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

  Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile;
    But since of singing she doth take such pleasure,
  Without or other art or other guile
    I seek to win her with a tuneful measure;
    Therefore in singing spend I all my leisure,
  To make by singing this sweet bird my own.

  I found myself one day all, all alone,
  For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

The same lady is more directly celebrated in the next Ballata, where Poliziano calls her by her name, Ippolita.  I have taken the liberty of substituting Myrrha for this somewhat unmanageable word.

  He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
  Let him look fixedly on Myrrha’s eyes.

  From Myrrha’s eyes there flieth, girt with fire,
    An angel of our lord, a laughing boy,
  Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre,
    And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy,
    That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy;
  Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise!

  He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
  Let him look fixedly on Myrrha’s eyes.

  From Myrrha’s eyes a virtue still doth move,
    So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight,
  That it is like the lightning of high Jove,
    Riving of iron and adamant the might;
    Nathless the wound doth carry such delight
  That he who suffers dwells in Paradise.

  He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
  Let him look fixedly on Myrrha’s eyes.

  From Myrrha’s eyes a lovely messenger
    Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee,
  That all proud souls are bound to bend to her;
    So sweet her countenance, it turns the key
    Of hard hearts locked in cold security: 
  Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise.

  He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
  Let him look fixedly on Myrrha’s eyes.

  In Myrrha’s eyes beauty doth make her throne,
    And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind: 
  Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known
    As in the whole wide world he scarce may find: 
    Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind,
  He lives again beneath her gazing eyes.