Graces.

Bottecelli, La Primavera, 1482

Thus will the birds their brief silence break 

Singing here and there amongst the branches - 

Several for old nests seem to take fresh straw, 

And tiny strands to weave. 

Mushrooms hosted in the verdant meadows, 

Are chased by light-hearted women who pick now these, 

Now those. 

Then the dormouse her sleep and home will quit till evening comes, 

The cry of the owl with it. 

And when a gentle breeze here be blowing in sweet decree 

It bends the flowers to ground, 

Playf’lly around them spinning and swirling, 

By turns, it ties, looses, binds as it bounds. 

The tall grass, doomed to the scythe, 

Is swaying angrily falling down upon the mound; 

In delicate notes the young bough answers sweetly, 

Nor falls to the ground any flower. 

Amidst so many pleasant and fine things my lady, 

Very beautiful and kind, surpassing th’others, 

All of them graces, in her most diaphanous garment white. 

Speaking in new and never uttered words, 

Her eyes to my heart, for her mouth is silent: 

Come, she says to me, 

O my dear sweetheart, 

Here’s peace, fulfilment longed for by your heart.

- Lorenzo di Medici