Flowery Zephyr had loosened the year from its bristling grip,
quenching the wars of Boreas with his own peace.
Drenched with a hail of flowers, he rained down the privet,
and bade snows of these appear upon the meadows.
Spring, like a fuller renewing his craft, mending the mantles of the fields,
kindled their robes with the fire of crimson.
He gave back to the trees the hair that winter had shorn away,
restoring the garment that winter itself had taken.
It was the season when the grace of spring, with the applause of the Dryads,
spread abroad its lavish riches over the fields;
when the infancy of the flowers, gaining greater strength,
rising higher, withdraws from its mother the earth.
when the violet, licking the mirror of earth, its cradle,
with a new mouth demands the breath of the air.
It was the season when the earth, its head starred with roses,
vied with heaven, full of its own stars.
when the almond tree, bearing the standards of the age's youth,
proclaims its birth, and calls forth the joys of spring with its blossom;
when the vine, its bosom bejeweled, embracing its husband
the elm, thinks upon its own bearing of fruit.
The sun's warmth outlawed the shadow of winter,
forcing all the cold to suffer exile,
when the illusory winter hid itself away in the deep woods,
the shade that the fresh leaves of the woods had made.
Now Juno had given her breasts of dew to the little flower,
that her nursling might first suck milk from her own offspring.
It was the season when the power of Phoebus rouses the dead grasses,
and bids all things rise up from their graves;
when the glad face of spring makes clear and calm the world,
and wipes the tears of winter from its own face,
so that the flower may be able to entrust itself to the good faith of the air,
and winter's cold not scorch the first flower.
when Phoebus visits the world, groaning under the numbness of winter,
and greets it with a joyful light;
when the age of time nearby lays down its old age,
and the world, though older, begins to be a boy again;
when Phoebus impoverishes the night of its own hours,
and the dwarf day begins to become a giant;
when the flock of sheep prepares lodging for Phoebus, and pays its tribute,
the herd rejoicing in the sun as its guest;
when Philomel celebrates the rites of her own spring,
singing an ode of honeyed song with her mouth,
in whose festival she plies the instruments of her throat,
that with her own mouth she may proclaim her own god.
when the lark, with a sweet sound, counterfeits the lyre,
as she flies to the heavens and converses with Jove.
A silvery brightness brought forth the wanton birds,
and had bidden the day to be its own upon the rivers.
You might see the varied running of the stream chattering,
the murmur of its going was a prelude to sleep.
And by the very look of its brightness, that spring was asking
that a weary man might take up its cups.