When you stare me, child,

your glance and you smile,

you seem rosy hope

that comes to do me happy.

It cheers me your presence.

Who doesn't smile in face of the flowers?

Do I see you? My soul, joined,

sees beauties, sees fulgors.

That is why, when invades

my chest vile sorrow,

I, sad, have will

of admiring your profile.

If I see you, here is soon dead

my terrible sadness:

your glance transports me

in the enchantment and to the venture.

But, if, again, you are absent,

my soul is all grief:

horrible, cruel pains,

to mines they come to join.

And, even in serene afternoons

not finding soothing,

I sigh, just sigh

for not seeing you where I live.

Where I live you I don't see,

but, of you always reminding,

every hour, I have opportunity

for, sad, to sigh.

And, then, when the night goes down,

I have in the soul only sadness!

Who, like me, so much suffers

for loving your beauty?

I like to see you red-faced,

when it is still fresh the morning,

as immaculate flower,

as a pagan goddess.