love poetry

For whom shall I array my hair,
For whom my hands adorn,
For whom my sea-dyed tunic wear,
Now I am left forlorn?

Mine eyes of Rhodopi berest
Find naught to make them gay,
No joy in golden dawn is left
Now that my love's away.

This is love's vintage hour; within my arms
I hold imprisoned all thy rosy charms,
The crown of my desire, nor can see
In spring or summer aught so fair as thee.
Thy autumn beauties every treasure hold,
Oh, may they bloom for aye, nor e'er grow old.
And yet, what care I? When the grapes lie piled,
Men do not heed the curling tendrils wild.
And so my love will constant last, I trow,
E'en when the tendril wrinkles line thy brow.

Love and Desire play the set,
My heart's the flying ball,
To Heliodore across the net
They send it, rise and fall.

Be heedful, sweetest; watch thy art
Nor mock me in my need;
To miss the stroke and lose my heart,
That were a fault indeed.

The wine-cup flew with treacherous haste
As in your arms I lay embraced,
While low you murmured in my ear
Whispers of love so sweet to hear.
I fell asleep, a maiden free;
And in my sleep you conquered me.

So now to Venus here I bring
These sandals for an offering,
And these soft bands with perfume wet
Which on my bosom then were set,
That they may witness how I strove
Before I yielded to my love.

By Timo's wealth of ringlets
In lovers' true-knots drest,
By Demo's fragrant perfumes
And sleep-beguiling breast,

By Ilias' sportive fancies
And by my lamp's dim light —
The lamp that's seen the revels
Of many a vigil night —

Upon my lips my spirit faints;
But while I breathe and live,
All that to me of life remains
To thee, great Love, I give.

See how the Cupids string their bows
As from her couch Irene goes,
The golden couch of Love.
A statue with a maiden's face
From head to foot arrayed in grace
Her power they soon will prove.
From purple cord they speed the dart
Which quick shall pierce some youthful heart.

Long are the hours, the storm winds blow,
Night passes ere the Pleiads set,
But still before her door I go
With driving rain all wet.

This is not love, this torturing smart,
These arrows forged in flaming fire;
I know her false, but yet my heart
Still burns with mad desire.

What wonder is't if Love, the bane of man,
Has weapons three to work his cruel plan.
The mother from whose womb he came to life
Was bride of Fire, and paramour of Strife,
Herself fierce Ocean's child, lashed by the breeze,
Without a father, rising from the seas.
And so from husband, lover, and grand-dame
Her son's rough laugh, bold eyes, red arrows came.
Thalatta's temper his, Hephaestus' fire,
And shafts of Ares stained with blood and mire.

I'll Burn your bow, bold lad; by Love I swear,
Your quiver, too, with all its Scythian gear.
I will indeed, though now you sneer and cry;
That empty laugh shall soon be turned awry.
I'll break your pinions winged with passion fleet
And fasten brazen fetters on your feet.
And yet methinks a doubtful prize I win
To let a wolf my fenced heart steal within.
Nay, you are victor. Quick your sandals take
And fly away some other heart to break.

To Market with him, though he sleep
Upon his mother's breast.
To market with him: I'll not keep
So insolent a pest.

Glib, unabashed, swift glancing, wild,
A monster void of shame;
His mother even fears her child
As one she cannot tame.

Sly-faced is he, with wings close pressed
And nails that scratch and smart;
While tears fall from his eyes distressed
A smile his lips will part.

So quick to market send him down
To see if one will buy.
Is any merchant leaving town?