love poetry

Love did not know there was a bee sleeping in the roses and was stung; he shook his finger and cried out.
He ran and fluttered to the beautiful Cytherean and exclaimed: " I am killed, mother, I am killed, I shall die! A little winged serpent which peasants call a honey-bee, stabbed me. "
And she answered: " If the sting of a honey-bee hurt so much, how do you think they suffer, Love, who are stung by you? "

Love flays me with a hyacinth rod and bids me to fight.
I dash through the sharp torrents, the forests and the valleys; and my sweat exhausts me.
My heart leaps to my mouth and I desire death.
But Love brushes my brow with soft wings and whispers: " Can you not kiss? "

The husband of Cytherea by the furnace of Lemnos took iron and fashioned the shafts of the loves.
And Aphrodite took sweet honey to anoint the tips, but Love mingled gall with it.
Ares shaking his thick spear, sneered at Love's shaft, but Love said: " It is heavy; those who have felt it know that. "
Ares received the dart; Aphrodite smiled a little. But Ares groaned and cried: " It is heavy indeed — take it from me. " But Love said: " Keep it. "

Horses have marks branded with fire on their flanks and any one can pick out the Persians by their mitres.
When I see lovers I know them at once, for they have a small brand within the soul.

Dear swallow, when you come back with the new year, you weave your nest; and in winter you disappear to the Nile or Memphis.
Love builds ever a nest in my heart; one Desire is winged there and another is an egg and another already half-hatched; and ever comes the cry of the gaping nestlings. And the larger feed the lesser loves.
Those who feed straightway conceive others. What is to be done then? I cannot out-clamour all these loves!

The Muses bound Love in garlands and gave him to Beauty.
And now the Cytherean brings a ransom to have Love set free.
If any one does free him he will not leave but stay; he has learned to be a slave.

Nature, Creations law, is judg'd by sense,
Not by the Tyrant conscience.
Then our commission gives us leave to doe
What youth and pleasure prompts us to:
For we must question else heavens great decree,
And taxe it with a Treachery;
If things made sweet to tempt our appetite
Should with a guilt staine the delight.
Higher powers rule us, our selves can nothing doe;
Who made us love, made 't lawfull too.

Once Eros, mid the roses,
A sleeping bee awakened,
Which on the finger stung him.
His heart was filled with sorrow.

Half-running and half-flying,
He sought his goddess mother,
The beautiful Kythera:
" Alas, O mother, " crying,

" Olola, I am dying!
A little winged serpent,
A bee, the shepherds name it,
Has stung me on my finger. "

His mother said: " If bee-stings
Are found to be so painful,
Thou seest how mortals suffer
When wounded by thy arrows! "

The threads of my life are bound to you, Myiscus, and in you is all the breath my soul retains.
By your eyes, your eyes which speak even to the blind, by your clear brow, if you turn to me a darkened eye it is winter for me, but if you look happy, dear spring itself flowers for me!

A goddess, queen of Desires, gives me to you, Theocles, and soft-sandalled Love brings me naked to you, a stranger in a strange land, governed by Love's unbreakable reins. If only I could make a real friendship with you!
But you reject me, neither does time alter you nor the tokens of friendship.
Be gracious, O king, be gracious! Fate has made you a god and you hold the threads of life and death for me.