TO THE DEATH OF PHILIS (20 first verses)

Into drear cypresses
Converted I have seen
Fair Venus's myrtle
And Bacchus's vine leaves;
Now like the crow's harsh voice,
a tone once so sweet
As tender goldfinch's
Wounds my unhappy ear;
Nor does the brook murmur
Its lovely trilling theme;
It resounds like a crag
Against which the waves beat.
Instead now of the lambs
From the neighboring peaks,
I've seen herds of lions
Descend in their fury.
With their swift chariots
The sun and moon between
Distribute black shadows
Throughout their circling sweep.