LIII
Τίῳ σ’, ὦ φίλε γάμβρε, κάλως ἐϊκάσδω;
ὄρπακι βραδίνῳ σε κάλιστ’ ἐϊκάσδω.
DEAR bridegroom, it is spring ; the boughs rejoice,
The earth once more has merriment and voice,
The bees cling to the fluted columbine
Or jonquil, too desirous to be brief;
The ground is fertile, and the anise-leaf
Is green for garlands where the sunbeams shine.
Dear bridegroom, whereto shall I liken thee ?
Most like to a soft shoot thou seem'st to me,
Full of the sap and pressure of the year ;
Supple thou art and healthful, and the gifts
Of life are bright within thee ; no one lifts
Like thee the quoit, or steeds like thine can rear.
Thou hast the brows of Peleus' godlike son,
Thou hast his yellow hair, and thou art one
Who deed for deed could match him in the fray.
Heroic is thy strain ! O youth, the verse
Of Homer, winged and solemn, might rehearse
Thine acts, thy beauty. Why wilt thou delay ?
For thee thy bride her forehead-shading tress
Shears off and gives to Fate. Around her press
The kindly Hours that make the meadows bloom
And set the fostering airs of April free ;
While golden Cypris more to hearten thee
With her own hand prepares thy marriage-room.
