In vain, inside the promised branches hiding,
Your tender retinue thunders above.
I drop a myrtle that did love so many,
I drop the belt that did so sweetness love.
With a dumb arrow that is heavily piercing
Freed me from these my shackles your own son.
Thus at the very throne of my calmness
You born of foam, as a foam be gone!
Тщетно, в ветвях заповедных кроясь,
Нежная стая твоя гремит.
Сластолюбивый роняю пояс,
Многолюбивый роняю мирт.
Тяжкоразящей стрелой тупою
Освободил меня твой же сын.
— Так о престол моего покоя,
Пеннорождённая, пеной сгинь!
____
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«Do I need excuses / For divine mismatching? — / Poetry and music / Aren't cure-all magic. And why hum insanely / Tunes and verses hopeless? / Having nothing saintly / Feels more fun and homeless. And our gain is pretty / Minuscule and fleeting — / Only heartfelt pity, / So th...»
«T. O.-T. My evening, silver-feathered, / All-consecrating light! / As if no longer present, / I turn to you my sight – With gratefulness: for every / Revitalizing breath, / That in my final craving / You granted to my breast, For every elevation / Of your becalming hand, / For a...»
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