We reached the grove's deep shadow and there found
Cythera's son in sleep's sweet fetters bound;
Looking like ruddy apples on their tree;
No quiver and no bended bow had he;
These were suspended on a leafy spray.
Himself in cups of roses cradled lay,
Smiling in sleep; while from their flight in air,
The brown bees to his soft lips made repair,
To ply their waxen task and leave their honey there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Plato the name of the greatest genious lived in BC scholar in philosophy, mathematics, and several other talents and argumentative capacity always respected by the humanity as their Master thinker about this world and its ongoing business and interests the characters, the ruling elites, the system of governance. His small poem which have vast meaning is beyond comment and I as a reader and interested in the Greek Philosophy and its rich heritage bow my head before the most learned scholar who has no death and whose soul is beyond an end.