Flowers, cold from the dew, And autumn's approaching breath,I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids, Which haven't faded yet. In their nights, fragrantly resinous, Entwined with delightful mystery, They will breathe in her springlikeExtraordinary beauty. But in a whirlwind of sound and fire, From her shing head they will flutterAnd fall?and before herThey will die, faintly fragrant still. And, impelled by faithful longing, My obedient gaze will feast upon them?With a reverent hand, Love will gather their rotting remains.
Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies' rancorAnd the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover's burning tenderness?all thisI bestow upon you, messenger of dawn. Also the glory for which I was born, For which my star, like some whirlwind, soaredAnd now falls. Look, its fallingProphesies your power, love and inspiration. Preserving my generous bequest, You will live long and worthily. Thus it will be. You see, I am content, Be happy, but remember me.