Luis de Gongora, Spain, 1561-1627
When, at the rising of the sun, my nymph
Despoils the verdant field of flowers,
As many spring beneath her white feet
As she has gathered with lovely hand.
Wavelike is the breeze that flows
With fine gold, in illusory elegance,
Stirs the green leaves of dense poplars,
With the red light of breaking dawn.
But when she wreathes her lovely brow
With the various spoils in her dress
Putting an end to gold and snow
I swear her garland shines far brighter
Than flowers, and seems more star-like,
Formed of the nine orbs that light the sky.