Ah, suffer that my song
To thee alone belong:
No dearer happiness my heart would choose
Than thus to cast, O sweet,
Each measured scroll before thy perfect feet,
Having no other muse.
O wistful love! how well
All that my lips would tell,
All that the lyre's revibrant strings attest,
Was writ upon thy breast
With kisses keen and slow . . .
So long, so long ago.
What tears are confluent
From springs and summers spent,
Feeding the fount of this our Helicon;
And wine forlornly poured,
Or spilt for thee, O maenad most adored,
In feasts of moon or sun.
Let now some interval
Of lyric silence fall;
Like heavy garlands let thy hair be shed
About by brow and head,
While songs unsung and sweet
Within our pulses beat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem