Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.
Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.
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.
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.
Death is an evil; the gods have so judged; had it been good, they would die.
There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.