|Have You forgotten then my heart of old,|
That college of Love, that whip that bright eyes hold?
|The school-bred demi-goddesses of this age|
Lack the carved grace of the old pagan mold!
|This is a strange world, neither cage nor nest,|
With no calm nook in all its spacious fold.
|The vine awaits Your bounteous rain: no more|
Is the Magian wine in Persia’s taverns sold.
|My comrades thought my song were of Spring’s kindling—|
How should they know what in Love’s notes is told?
|Out of my flesh and blood You made this earth;|
Its quenchless fever the martyr’s crown of gold.
|My days supported by Your alms, I do not|
Complain against my friends, or the times scold.
Translated by: V.G. Kiernan