Classic Poem

Peer of the gods is that man, who
face to face, sits listening
to your sweet speech and lovely laughter.

It is this that rouses a tumult
in my breast. At mere sight of you
my voice falters, my tongue is broken.

Straightway, a delicate fire runs in
my limbs; my eyes
are blinded and my ears thunder.

Sweat pours out: a trembling hunts
me down. I grow paler
than dry grass and lack little of dying.