I would not think to touch the sky with two arms
How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away
The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.
There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.
He who is fair to look upon is good, and he who is good will soon be fair also.