Dear motherland of mine,
I love you as you are,
But if I saw you free,
I'd love you even more.

Weep, oh forests, plains and stones,
Weep, oh mountains under snows,
Poor Albania is abandoned,
Never will she see the light,
Veiled forever is the country
In a thick and sombre blight.

Darkness and misfortune on us,
Thunder, lightning all around us,
Do we live with hearts a-frozen,
Dwell in fear, deprived of joy,
None in song do raise their voices,
And the nightingales are grieving.

What disaster, desolation!

Serve me the draught of love's ambrosia
One bedecked with peacock feathers!
This futile threshing of arid philosophies tastes so insipid!
These emaciated cattle crave merely the dry husk,
They pine not for the ultimate liberation!
Serve me the draught of love's ambrosia
One bedecked with peacock feathers!

Parikshit could not grasp the secret of Love,
Sukaji knowingly hid this flavor of love,
And wrote the book with penance and austerity,
Showing us the royal road to liberation!
Serve me the draught of love's ambrosia

For the splendour of the day of happinesses in the air
To live the taste of colours easily
To enjoy loves so as to laugh
To open eyes at the final moment

She has every willingness.

The night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.

The branches die of love.

Naked the night sings
above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body
with salt water and roses.

The branches die of love.

The night of anise and silver
shines over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors
Anise of your white thighs.

The branches die of love.

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hush'd so deep,
Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!
Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep!
With golden visions of thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,
And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me 'tis sweeter than the power
Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd,

From the Greek Anthologies


Swifter than aught 'neath the sun the car of Simonides moved
him.
Two things he could not out-run--Death and a Woman who
loved him.

My life's joy and incense: recollection of those hours
when I found and captured pleasure as I wanted it.
My life's joy and incense: that I refused
all indulgence in routine love affairs.

He that cannot choose but love,
And strives against it still,
Never shall my fancy move,
For he loves 'gainst his will;
Nor he which is all his own,
And can at pleasure choose,
When I am caught he can be gone,
And when he list refuse.
Nor he that loves none but fair,
For such by all are sought;
Nor he that can for foul ones care,
For his judgement then is nought;
Nor he that hath wit, for he
Will make me his jest or slave;
Nor a fool, for when others...,
He can neither....;
Nor he that still his Mistress pays,

The bay is not blue but sombre yellow
With wrack from the battered valley, it is speckled with violent
foam-heads
And tiger-striped with long lovely storm-shadows.
You love this better than the other mask; better eyes than yours
Would feel the equal beauty in the blue.
It is certain you have loved the beauty of storm disproportionately.
But the present time is not pastoral, but founded
On violence, pointed for more massive violence: perhaps it is not
Perversity but need that perceives the storm-beauty.

(Transparent)


Sugar Lee you are the sun today,
Pervasive light and heat, and I
The valley floor, the birch pine slopes,
The snow-capped peaks, transparent sky

Through which you spread, and oh how
My toes are tingling miles away.
Then let us spread this picnic rug;
Come let’s play mortals Sugar Lee.

Come stay a day, come lie an hour,
A lunar month, a solar year;
The world will organise itself the while
I whisper praises in your ear.


(Suck)

Come let’s play mortals Sugar Lee,