Short Poems

Horses have marks branded with fire on their flanks and any one can pick out the Persians by their mitres.
When I see lovers I know them at once, for they have a small brand within the soul.

You talk of Thebes and of the Phrygians, but I speak of my own conquests.
No horse slew me, no foot-soldier, no ship, but a new enemy struck me from her eyes.

Dear swallow, when you come back with the new year, you weave your nest; and in winter you disappear to the Nile or Memphis.
Love builds ever a nest in my heart; one Desire is winged there and another is an egg and another already half-hatched; and ever comes the cry of the gaping nestlings. And the larger feed the lesser loves.
Those who feed straightway conceive others. What is to be done then? I cannot out-clamour all these loves!

Nature gave horns to the bull and hoofs to horses, fleetness to hares and a wide mouth of teeth to the lion, swimming to fish, flight to birds, and wisdom to men, but to women nothing.
Nothing? Beauty is a gift beyond all shields and swords and she who is beautiful conquers steel and fire.

The dark earth drinks and the trees drink the earth; the sea drinks the winds and the sun drinks the sea and the moon drinks the sun.
Why, O friends, do you quarrel with me for drinking as I wish?

Sweet the singing of Anacreon, ah! sweet the songs of Sappho; the mingled song of Pindar pours into me.
And it seems to me that Dionysus and Aphrodite of the sleek body and Eros himself would drink of these three.

The Muses bound Love in garlands and gave him to Beauty.
And now the Cytherean brings a ransom to have Love set free.
If any one does free him he will not leave but stay; he has learned to be a slave.

" Beautiful pigeon, whence do you fly? How is it that you are scented and drip with such sweet perfumes as you fly through the air? What are you? What is it you want? "

Set me free to drink, to drink at a draught — by the gods! I will, I will be mad drunk!
Alkmaion was mad and white-foot Orestes, who slew his mother; but I kill no one, drinking red wine — I will, I will be mad drunk!
Heracles was made once, distracted by the terrible quiver and the Iphiteian bow; Ajax also was mad, shaking the sword and shield of Hector.
But I have a wine-cup and this garland for my long hair, no dagger or bow — I will, I will be mad drunk!

When with Wine my soul is arm'd,
All my grief and tears are charm'd;
Life in toils why should we wast,
When we're sure to dye at last?
Drink we then, nor Bacchus spare;
Wine's the Antidote of Care.