It is of you, divine enchantress, I am thinking, Myrto, br Burning with a thousand fires at haughty Posilipo, br Of your forehead flowing with an Oriental glare, br Of the black grapes mixed with the gold of your hair. br br From your cup also I drank to intoxication, br And from the furtive lightning of your smiling eyes, br While I was seen praying at the feet of Iacchus, br For the Muse has made me one of Greece's sons. br br Over there the volcano has re-opened, and I know br It is because yesterday you touched it with your nimble toe, br And suddenly the horizon was covered with ashes.