I found myself one day all, all alone,

For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

I do not think the world a field could show

With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare;

But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row,

A thousand flowers around me flourished fair,

White, pied and crimson, in the summer air;

Among the which I heard a sweet bird’s tone.

I found myself one day all, all alone,

For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Her song it was so tender and so clear

That all the world listened with love; then I

With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near,

Her golden head and golden wings could spy,

Her plumes that flashed like rubies ’neath the sky,

Her crystal beak and throat and bosom’s zone.

I found myself one day all, all alone,

For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love;

But arrow-like she soared, and through the air

Fled to her nest upon the boughs above;

Wherefore to follow her is all my care,

For haply I might lure her by some snare

Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.

I found myself one day all, all alone,

For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile;

But since of singing she doth take such pleasure,

Without or other art or other guile

I seek to win her with a tuneful measure;

Therefore in singing spend all my leisure,

To make by singing this sweet bird my own.

I found myself one day all, all alone,

For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

—Angelo Poliziano, (1454-1494.)