The Moon and Pleiades have set, / Midnight is nigh, / The time is passing, passing, yet / Alone I lie.
Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.
Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.
Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.
In gold sandals / dawn like a thief / fell upon me.
How love the limb-loosener sweeps me away