The mighty Atlas, father of those seven sisters,
Bears the weight of heaven on his broad shoulders.
And even one of the brothers three, lives eternal;
In Chaos realms, Tartarus' black abyss, in which
No soul returns, to gaze upon life's light once more.
Although, forgive me, I lie; a few, a few selected,
Have returned from amidst heavy woe, pushing
Down their sorrows. Orpheus ventured,
With sweet song, motherly ordained and with divine,
Unrivalled skill on his lyre, seduced Hades himself.
I too, challenge his great powers; and with her skirt
Flapping with speed, ride on Auroras saffron chariot,
Cooking the sky's dark covering wings, to a baking red,
While the sun gallops up, stampeding behind our cart.
I play, not keen, to act the fool, and lay these pale ivy
Laments in front, which my lips have yet not touched.
I place you in the centre, forests following, clear streams
Flowing as crystals sway on its surface; and yet,
I have not put them to my lips; but keep them by.
I praise not this, but sing, because together we sit
On this soft green grass; now the woods are leafing,
Now the year is at its loveliest, the cheeky girl
Pelts me with apples. Presents are laid up for my Emily,
I myself have observed where doves make their nests.
I'll pick ten apples, picked from a woodland tree,
And for you, I'll pick ten more tomorrow.
You breezes waft a word or two to the gods' ears
And to my pure white seraphim, for her to hear.
I love my angel most of all, for when I left,
She wept and said ‘So long, love, so long.'
Wolves are sad for the folds, rain for the crops,
Gales for the trees, and Emily, me for you.
I love my muse, let him who loves you share your paradise.
Let honey flow from him, let roses blossom
From his pores, to pick flowers and earth born strawberries,
To dip you, in springs of tears myself. My love is ruinous
And the sky extends no wider than my heart.
Say, in what lands the flowers inscribe your name,
The name of goddesses; for who fears the sweet,
Or feels the bitterness of love; let them drink their fill.