I breathe a breath that few men ever know!
My muse will blow her breath into my face,
So sweet the wind I breathe, that when she blows
I close my eyes; she draws me from my place.
The honeysuckle vines that sweet the air –
When roses or when lilies flood the sense –
Their odor of delight is not more fair
Than when my breath of muse would draw me hence.
So I delight that I may know her frame -
Convinced beyond all doubt that she is mine!
Though she would lisp and stutter through my name,
I, sitting at her table, sweetly dine.
Inspired I stand, and from my hills of mead
Sweet odors waft, and from it, arts proceed.