What music’s devious voice can say, beguiling

The flattered spirit, your voice can richlier say,

Moving the happy creature to such smiling

As the young sun brings flowers at break of day.

Nor can the southwest wind, who turns green boughs,

And sings in watery reeds, outvie your voice—

No, though the whole wide world of birds he rouse,

And boughs and birds, together, all rejoice.

Not water’s self, shy singer among stones,

Vowelling softly of his secret love,

Can murmur to green roots such undertones,

Nor with low laughter have such power to move.

No rival—none. There is no help for us.

Be it confessed—I am idolatrous.