Short Poems

I am sprung of humane seed,
For a lives short race decree'd;
Though I know the way I've gone,
That which is to come's unknown;
Busie thoughts do not disturb me;
What have you to do to curb me?
Come, some Wine and Musick give;
Ere we dye, 'tis fit we live.

Hephaestus, graver-of-silver, make for me no panoply of war — what have I to do with battle? — but carve out for me a hollow wine-cup.
And fashion upon it for me no stars, neither the Waggon nor gloomy Orion. What are the Pleiades to me, what lovely Bootes?
But carve vines upon it for me and grape-clusters and the Maenads plucking them; grave upon it a wine-press and those that tread out the grapes, and laughing Pans, the golden Loves, the smiling Cytherean, and with fair Lyaeus, Eros and Aphrodite.

Give me the lyre of Homer, far from the note of war; bring me, ah, bring me the sacred drinking cup.
I will mix my songs — I will be drunk and dance! In hatred of temperance I will call to the mad wine-bibber with a music of lyres.
Give me the lyre of Homer, far from the note of war.

In a dream I saw Anacreon, the poet of Teos, who called to me and I, hastening to him, kissed and greeted him.
He was an old man but beautiful; beautiful and one who loved to lie with girls; his mouth was wine-scented and as he stumbled, drunk, love held him by the hand.
He lifted a flower-crown from his head and gave it to me, and it smelled of Anacreon. Like a weak fool I bound it upon my forehead and from that time till this I have not ceased from love.

Atis through deserted groves
Cybele invoking roves:
And like madness them befell
Who were drunk at Phaebus Well:
But I willingly will prove
Both these Furies, Wine, and Love.

Winged young man, why do you hold a hunting spear and a boar-skin? Who are you, the symbol on this tomb?
You are not Love. Does Desire dwell among the dead? He has not yet learned how to weep.
Neither are you swift-footed Time, for he is very old and your body is young.
It seems to me that a poet lies beneath the earth here and that you, winged one, speak his name.
Not without reason you hold a two-edged spear — for grave and gay and perhaps for love verses. Yes, the symbols of the boar-hunter mean Meleager, the namesake of the son of oeneus.

In Priamum.

Had doting Priam checkt his sonnes desire,
Troy had beene bright with fame, and not with fire.

It is sweet to mix honey with wine and sweet to love beauty — if you are beautiful too — as Alexis loves soft-haired Cleobulus.
This is the immortal drink of honey and wine given by Aphrodite.

The threads of my life are bound to you, Myiscus, and in you is all the breath my soul retains.
By your eyes, your eyes which speak even to the blind, by your clear brow, if you turn to me a darkened eye it is winter for me, but if you look happy, dear spring itself flowers for me!

A goddess, queen of Desires, gives me to you, Theocles, and soft-sandalled Love brings me naked to you, a stranger in a strange land, governed by Love's unbreakable reins. If only I could make a real friendship with you!
But you reject me, neither does time alter you nor the tokens of friendship.
Be gracious, O king, be gracious! Fate has made you a god and you hold the threads of life and death for me.