How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away
Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.
No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.
Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.
Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.