When the girls drew nigh the grove,
      Some fear came upon them;
    Further as they fared, the charm
      Of the pleasance won them;
    All the birds so sweetly sang
      That a spell was on them,
    And their bosoms warmed with love
      At the welcome shown them.

    Man would be immortal if
      He could there be dwelling: 
    Every branch on every tree
      With ripe fruit is swelling;
    All the ways with nard and myrrh
      And with spice are smelling: 
    How divine the Master is
      All the house is telling.

    Blithesome bands arrest their gaze,
      Youths and maidens dancing;
    Bodies beauteous as the stars,
      Eyes with heaven’s light glancing
    And the bosoms of the girls,
      At the sight entrancing,
    Leap to view such marvels new,
      Joy with joy enhancing!

    They their horses check, and light,
      Moved with sudden pleasure;
    Half forget what brought them here,
      Thralled by love and leisure;
    Till once more the nightingale
      Tuned her thrilling measure;
    At that cry each girl again
      Hugs her hidden treasure.

    Round the middle of the grove
      Was a place enchanted,
    Which the god for his own rites
      Specially had planted;
    Fauns and nymphs and satyrs here
      Flowery alleys haunted,
    And before the face of Love
      Played and leaped and chaunted.

    In their hands they carry thyme,
      Crowns of fragrant roses;
    Bacchus leads the choir divine
      And the dance composes;
    Nymphs and fauns with feet in tune
      Interchange their posies;
    But Silenus trips and reels
      When the chorus closes.

    On an ass the elder borne
      All the mad crew guideth;
    Mirth and laughter at the view
      Through Love’s glad heart glideth. 
    “Io!” shouts the eld; that sound
      In his throat subsideth,
    For his voice in wine is drowned,
      And his old age chideth.

    ’Mid these pleasant sights appears
      Love, the young joy-giver;
    Bright as stars his eyes, and wings
      On his shoulders shiver;
    In his left hand is the bow,
      At his side the quiver;
    From his state the world may know
      He is lord for ever.

    Leans the boy upon a staff
      Intertwined with flowers,
    Scent of nectar from his hair
      Breathes around the bowers;
    Hand in hand before him kneel
      Three celestial Hours,
    Graces who Love’s goblet fill
      From immortal showers.

It would surely be superfluous to point out the fluent elegance of this poem, or to dwell farther upon the astonishing fact that anything so purely Renaissance in tone should have been produced in the twelfth century.