Your skin no longer blooms tender, dry already

Your furrow dead to sweet longing of plows,

Age pulls down your face away from desire—

It’s true: many breaths have planted winter winds In the earth of you, too many many times . . .

If willfully, Archinus, I serenaded you, then multiply

my guilt 10,000 times; but if I came against my will,

lay off your hasty judgment. Wine and Love

tortured me until I complied—of them, from them,

I started out, but I didn’t howl out, your name or your father’s,

just kissed the doorpost. If this is wrong, then I’m wrong.

ALCMAN 4B

. . . will overhear

. . . sea-toss perplexity of children also

. . . songs cannot be caught

. . . the good work hard

. . . and with limb-loosening desire, more

than sleep does or does death, her look melts me—

and that sweetness is no vain thing.

But Astymeloisa doesn’t answer me—

doesn’t bring me plaited wreaths

or any radiant as heaven

unfolding star

or golden apple or softly stripped bare . . .

. . . long-flowing she passed through—

a Cyprian oil’s charm sets down and dampens

the girl’s loose-flowing hair . . .

Astymeloisa steps among the mob

the city’s darling . . .

. . . grasping

. . . I say

. . . a silver cup

. . . were she somehow to love me,

came nearer, grasped my soft hand,

how sudden I’d be her suppliant.

Now . . .                                  girl mind-deep . . .