I love you, goddesses of singing, br But your invasion, so fine, br That tremor of the spirit thrilling, br Is a herald of the future pines. br br The Muses' love and Fortune's striking br Are one. I'm silent. I'm afraid: br My fingers, casting on the light strings, br Might here awake these storms and lightnings br In which my sleeping fate was laid. br br And, with strong torments ever wound, br I leave the Muse, who favours me, br And say: "Till tomorrow, sounds, br Let the day expire quietly.