The Stricken Flower

Think not to ever look as once of yore, Atthis, upon my love; for thou no more Wilt find intact upon its stem the flower Thy guile left slain and bleeding in that hour.

So ruthless shepherds crush beneath their feet The hill flower blooming in the summer heat; The hyacinth whose purple heart is found Left bruised and dead, to darken on the ground.

DEATH

Death is an evil; so the Gods decree, So they have judged, and such must rightly be Our mortal view; for they who dwell on high Had never lived, had it been good to die.

And so the poet’s house should never know Of tears and lamentations any show; Such things befit not us who deathless sing Of love and beauty, gladness and the spring.

No hint of grief should mar the features of Our dreams of endless beauty, lasting love; For they reflect the joy inviolate, Eternal calm that fronts whatever fate.

Clëis, my darling, grieve no more, I pray! Let wandering winds thy sorrow bear away, And all our care; my daughter, let thy smile Shine through thy tears and gladden me the while.