Dear bridegroom, it is spring; the boughs rejoice


    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.