The Lamp, and Heliodora

Tell fables, Lamp, oh honey

around Heliodora, lion

asleep on a mountain of bees,

girl I've sung of, sung

to; her sweets of speech a garland

Aphrodite wears in bed.

Her flowerful body (lute's garden).

Primavera's rosiest music

runs there rivulets of wine.

No one but Meleager

shall swan it cosy under her

cloak; a sated god oh withered

happy my night's roses scorching

in girl-lightning. For another,

drown your suns oh Lamp; poppy

him sleepy helpless En-

dymion ... Does my lion

pounce from her honey-mountain,

mother of the Lamp, friendly night,

trap her glance. Does my lion claw

me to tears, keep them secret.