She stayed. And, trembling with his love, the happy shepherd made his plea: “Oh look,” he said, “that downy dove has kissed his mate beneath the tree!” “Oh flee!” cried Reason once again; “They’ll teach you how!” said Eros then.

And then a smile so tender spilled across the blushing maiden’s lips, and as her eyes with languor filled, within her lover’s arms she slipped.

“Be happy!” Eros softly said. And Reason’s words? Oh, Reason fled.

Translated by James Falen

The Tear

Last night behind a jug of stout I sat with a hussar; and, grimly mute, I stared along the road, away off far.

My comrade asked: “Why, tell me, does the highway hold your gaze? You’ve yet to see your mates march off along it, God be praised!”

Dejectedly I hung my head and whispered in reply:

“Friend, she’s deserted me!…”, and then fell silent with a sigh.

A tear rolled glistening from my eye and dropped into the stout.

“What, cry about a girl, young lad! Oh shame!” my friend cried out.

“Leave off, hussar!… My heart – it aches!

No pain’s touched you, that’s clear.

A single tear’s enough, alas! to spoil a jug of beer!”

Translated by Roger Clarke

For the Lovely Girl Who Took Snuff

Can it be so? It once was roses, Cupid’s flowers, you loved, or a corsage of stately tulips, or fragrant freesias, jasmines, lilies – you used to love them all and wear them every day against the marble whiteness of your breast. How can it be, my dear Klimena,

that you have changed your taste so inexplicably?… Now what you like to smell is not a flower, morning-fresh, but a green toxic weed that human industry’s transformed into a powdery dust.

That greying German academic, hunched in his professorial chair, his learnèd mind immersed in Latin books – he, as he coughs and coughs, may use his shrivelled hand to poke the crushed tobacco up his nose.

That young moustachioed dragoon, while sitting by his window of a morning, still drowsy from a hangover, may puff grey smoke from out his meerschaum pipe.

That erstwhile beauty in her sixties, her charms away on leave, her love life terminated, whose glamour’s now maintained by artifice alone, upon whose body nowhere’s left unwrinkled – she, as she slanders, prays and yawns, may sniff tobacco dust, sure antidote to sorrow.

But you, my lovely one!… Yet if tobacco so takes your fancy now – oh, blaze of inspiration! – yes, I could be transmuted into dust, incarcerated in a snuffbox,

I could be caught up on your gentle fingers; then it would be my sweetest pleasure to have you sprinkle me upon your breast beneath your silken hanky – and perhaps even – No, empty dream! That cannot be. Why can’t harsh Fate relent enough to let me be a pinch of snuff?

Translated by Roger Clarke

To a Young Widow

Lida, true and loyal friend, through my shallow sleep beside you, tired and happy from our love, I can hear you sighing – why? Why, too, when I’m burning fiercely in intensity of passion, do I notice now and then that you’re shedding secret tears? And you listen, absent-minded, to my ardent declarations; cold the gaze with which you watch me, cold your hand when pressing mine. Dearest friend beyond all value, will there be an end to tears, will there be an end to calling your late husband from the grave? Trust me: for those held in death-sleep there’s no reawakening ever; sweet voice brings them no more sweetness, cry of grief grieves them no more. Not for them the rose-decked coffin, new day dawning, noisy wake, heartfelt tears of gathered friends, shattered lovers’ choked farewell. Yes, your not-to-be-forgotten friend too early breathed his last and in blissful exaltation fell asleep upon your breast:

crown now won, in joy he slumbers.

Yield to love: we’re innocent. No one with a jealous grudge will come to us from nether darkness; thunderbolts won’t fall at midnight; nor will any wrathful phantom up on two young lovers creep, startling them too soon from sleep.

Translated by Roger Clarke

To Elvina

Elvína, come, give me your hand, dear heart; cut short this heavy dream that wearies me. Speak… Will I see… Or must we stay apart, condemned by destiny?

Shall there be no more meetings face to face?

Must all my days be veiled in constant night? Shall we no more be caught in love’s embrace by a new morning’s light?

Elvína, as the night’s dark hours fly by, may I not hold you tight, my blood on fire, gaze at you, dear, with languid, longing eye and tremble with desire –

and then, in joy beyond all speech or measure, listen to your sweet lisp, your gentle cry, and drowse through pleasing night to waking pleasure, just we two, you and I?

Translated by Roger Clarke

The Moon

Out of the clouds why do you venture, oh solitary moon, and on the pillow where I lie alone squander your melancholy splendour? You with your gloomy visitation awaken dreams of love, the pain of hopeless passion, and the vain longings of lovers’ aspiration that reason hardly can allay.

Sad recollections, fly away!

Sleep, love that failed us both outright! There’ll never come again that night, when, moon, with your mysterious ray of placid radiance, you shone through heavy curtains on my bed, and gentle, gentle lustre shed upon my sweetheart’s lovely form. Why, precious moments, did you press with such a haste to fly away, and shadows pale to nothingness, extinguished by unwelcome day? How was it, moon, your lustre fell away in bright dawn’s radiance?

Why did the morning light advance?

Why did I bid my love farewell?

Translated by Jill Higgs and Roger Clarke

To Morpheus

O Morpheus, god of dreams, till day grant me relief from love’s distress. Come, blow my lamp out now, I pray, and my nocturnal visions bless! Block from my cheerless recollection the dreadful pain of those goodbyes; grant me to see her loving eyes, and hear her murmurs of affection. Then, once the dark has taken flight, your power over vision ended, oh how I wish my poor wits might forget love till fresh night’s descended!

Translated by Roger Clarke

For Friends

On you, my friends, the gods above still lavish golden nights and days: on you is fixed, with thought of love, every young girl’s attentive gaze. Play on then, comrades, for the while; drink up, and fill again your glasses; and, as the transient evening passes, through tears on your brief joys I’ll smile.

Translated by R.H. Morrison and Roger Clarke