 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
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The owl he loves the ivy tod, the dove the myrtle tree,—Which bird hath the better taste? come tell, my muse, to me.
With ivy Bacchus wreathes his brows, and merrily shouts he,
But Venus blessed the myrtle boughs, as she rose from out the sea;
'Tis gladsome in the festive hall when goblets flow with wine,
When hearts are brimming o'er with love, the joy is more divine;
Ha, ha!—for me the maddening wreath shall wild Bacchante twine,
But let her mix some myrtle buds, and then it shall be mine.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |