I drink the dew from the cup of the flow’r
I sport in the sunbeam that follows the show’r;
My soft couch is purple with violets spread,
A wild rose the canopy over my head.
When the soft breath of Zephyr announces the spring
I ride through the gardens and fields on his wing;
At noontide, if Phœbus too ardently glows,
My shelter I seek in the breast of the rose.
When the curfew-bell has rung
And dusky shadows round are flung;
When the humming beetle flies,
And her wing the owlet tries;
When flowrets close their little bells,
And bees are in their waxen cells;
Then I haunt the whisp’ring grove,
And hear the tales of mortal love.
There I hear the flatt’ring youth
(Cupid knows with how much truth!)
Tell the maid that her bright eyes
Vie with stars of summer skies!
That she’s fair as yonder moon,
And her cheek like rose of June!
Oh! what pity men deceive,
And that mortal maids believe!