I love you, goddesses of singing,
But your invasion, so fine,
That tremor of the spirit thrilling,
Is a herald of the future pines.
The Muses’ love and Fortune’s striking
Are one. I’m silent. I’m afraid:
My fingers, casting on the light strings,
Might here awake these storms and lightnings
In which my sleeping fate was laid.
And, with strong torments ever wound,
I leave the Muse, who favours me,
And say: “Till tomorrow, sounds,
Let the day expire quietly.”