On the sun-blanched plain and along the leafy avenues,
to pay greater honour to sweet summertime,
we shall go and chase the winged things,
for me, the verse, and for you, the gilded butterfly.

And we shall choose tempting roads
beneath the grey willows and along the brooks,
to better hear the singing things,
for me, rhythm, and for you, the chorus of the birds.

 ... 

And love, responding to our fancy,
shall make this day the most magical of summers;
I shall be a poet, and you, poetry.
You will be more beautiful, and I more loving.

Following the banks together under their spell
as the current kisses them with its eloquent ripples,
we shall find you, sweet-scented things,
me gathering verses, you picking flowers.

And love, responding to our fancy,
shall make this day the most magical of summers;
I shall be a poet, and you, poetry.
You will be more beautiful, and I more loving.