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Every night Venus shines down on this hillock and caresses the flowers which the singing bishop loved, the translator of Lucian of Samosata; A nearby berry bush delights the sparrows, in the bush are white clouds which say: "He brought down ridicule on our country as Yeus pelted Danae with golden rain; but death crept into his mirthful eyes which were as green as this tomb, but never mind, he didn't fully die; that very night pleasantly plump Venus lit her lamp above him. With its rays she silvers his grave for ever and ever. But there are shadows: the ghosts of offended monks shake their fists at him." -translated by Walter Whipple |