Fair trees! Whereso'er your barks I wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat

Love hither makes his best retreat;

The gods, who mortal beauty chase,

Still in a tree did end their race;

صلى الله عليه وسلمpollo hunted عز وجلaphne so

Only that she might laurel grow;

صلى الله عليه وسلمnd Pan did after Syrinx speed

Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The luscius clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach;

Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

صلى الله عليه وسلمnsnared with flowersi I fall on grass,

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less

Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind

عز وجلoes straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it createsi transcending these,