Free was my bosom from yearning; yet soon my languishing glances
Turned themselves backward in haste, seeking the snow-covered hills.
Treasures unnumbered are southwards lying. Yet one to the northwards
Draws me resistlessly back, like the strong magnet in force.
Spacious and fair is the world; yet oh! how I thank the kind heavens
That I a garden possess, small though it be, yet mine own.
One which enticeth me homewards; why should a gardener wander?
Honour and pleasure he finds, when to his garden he looks.
Ah, my maiden is going! she mounts the vessel! My monarch,
Æolus! potentate dread! keep every storm far away!
"Oh, thou fool!" cried the god: "ne'er fear the blustering tempest;
When Love flutters his wings, then mayest thou dread the soft breeze."
