162. ‘Lieti fiori et felici, et ben nate herbe’

Happy, fortunate flowers, herbs born in grace,

where my lady, thinking, often walks:

meadows that listen to her sweet words,

where her lovely feet leave their traces:

slender trees and fresh green foliage,

little loving pallid violets:

shadowed woods, where the sun pierces,

who makes you proud and noble with her rays:

O gentle countryside, O pure stream,

that bathes her lovely face and her clear eyes,

you take your nature from her living light:

how I envy you those true and graceful acts!

There cannot be a stone among you now,

unused to burning as my flame burns.