Weep, Mother of Love ! Weep, Baby-Boy of Arrows !
  And weep all men that have a tear to shed ! 
Because -- alas ! -- the sparrow of all sparrows, 
  The sparrow of my little girl, is dead. 

O it was sweet to hear him twitter-twitter 
  In the dear bosom where he made his nest ! 
Lesbia, sweetheart, who shall say how bitter 
  This grief to us -- so small to all the rest ? 

For Lesbia loved no less that little bird, 
  Nor less was loved, than mother loves her daughter, 
Or daughter mother ; would you could have heard 
  His tiny voice, pretty as falling water ! 

And in no other bosom would he sing, 
  But sometimes sitting here and sometimes there, 
On one bough and another, would he sing, -- 
  Faithful to Lesbia -- as I am to her. 

He, little bird, must go, as go the flowers, 
  Down the dark road by which no man returns ; 
O curses on the black strength that devours 
  The beauty of life, and all its music burns 

Foul shades of Orcus, evil you befall !
  'Tis true you smote her little sparrow dead -- 
But this you did to Lesbia worse than all: 
  You made her eyes with weeping -- O so red !