Short Poems

Ah, lad, weave violet crowns, adding to flowers new flowers, for this clear day brings in the calends of Venus.
See how the birds fly across the sky with much whistling one to another; see how the bees repeat their spring task and revisit the meadows.
And hear how the pilgrim swallow chatters and tells us of her swift return, herself preparing a couch for her young beneath the wonted beam!

These and the Romanists although they bend
Their Heads contrary, meet at last and tend
To worry true Religion, which doth stand
Like Bear at Stake with Dogs on either hand.
Extreams both in a Circle set their feet,
And fetch a compass, yet at last they meet.

When you laugh, you deny me kisses; when you weep, you give me kisses. In sorrow you are kind, in gladness cruel.
My pleasure is born from tears, my pain from laughter. O unhappy lovers, at once hope and fear all things!

Charon take Hobsons ghost and let it passe
By land, the same, it it by water was.
Thy cozen ghost, a spright to poets deare
To Elisium waft, a jocund Mariner
Hee'le pay the royall fare, deny this paine
And he shall ride to heaven in his owne wayne.

I will make wild music on the lyre, not in any contest but for practice by which alone comes the choice flower of skill. As I strike shrill music from the ivory plectrum I will cry out in the Phrygian measure, like the swan of Kaustros singing on the wing in unison with the wind.
Muse, dance also, for the cithara of Phaebus is holy and the laurel tripod.

Men with girls bear on their shoulders the black-skinned grape-clusters in baskets and throw them into a wine-press where men tread the grapes to set free the must, and beat out the great God with vintage-songs and watch Dionysus seething to lovely youth in the wine-jars.
When an old man drinks it he reels as he dances with wide-swung grey hair.

Gold, the runaway, flies from me — always, always it eludes me! — flies on swift wind-swept wings. But I do not pursue it. Who pursues hatred?
Gold the runaway has gone; I cast my sorrows to the wind and sing love songs to the lyre. Yet when my soul seems to have learned disdain the runaway suddenly calls to me, bringing a draught of worry, and I lose my delight in the exquisite lyre.
Faithless, faithless gold! You cheat me with your treacheries. But listen! The lyre strings murmur rather of desire than of you.

This bull can be none other than Zeus himself for he carries the Sidonian girl on his back over the wide sea and cleaves the waves with his hoofs.
And no other bull of the herd swims the sea save only this one.

When I drink wine my heart is aflame ... and begins to murmur of the Muse.
When I drink, I cast anxiety and good advice to the winds that blow over the sea.
When I drink wine, Bacchus, the freer-from-pain, the bright with wine, leads me into flower-scented air.
When I drink wine, I weave a flower-crown for my head and I sing the laughter of life.
When I drink wine, my body drips with myrrh and I call upon love and sing gaily of a girl.
When I drink wine and my head is a little dizzy from many wine-cups, I am happy with a throng of girls.

When the son of Zeus, the liberator, the wine-giver, Bacchus, enters me, he inspires me to dance.
And I, the wine-lover, have this pleasure also — Aphrodite applauds me with clapping of hands, with song.
And once more I am inspired to dance.