We sat and chatted at our ease


    Καμ μὲν τετύλαν κασπολέω·

    WE sat and chatted at our ease 
       Upon a wayside tomb, 
    When from a little grove of trees 
        Came Gorgo in her bloom : 
    Her head against my knee she prest, 
    And seemed to listen to the rest, 
    Then, looking up, said straight to me — 
    " Phaon is gone to Sicily." 

    Scarcely her insult might I hear, 
       For little Atthis spoke— 
    " A gourd ! The fruit-seller is near, 
       O Gorgo." And they broke 
    Away. I looked across the town ; 
    Ere I could set the cushion down 
    At home, and sob out all my woe, 
    How very far I had to go ! 

    Gone ! Is he gone ? Persephone, 
       Leave him not lips that kiss ! 
    Swift! draw him earthward down to thee, 
       Where he may mourn and miss 
    The fluttering motion of his boat, 
    The joy of the free life afloat, 
    And stretch ungrasping hands to reach 
    Eunica's figure on the beach. 

    Ah fool, to think love's pain could leap 
       Through bloodless shadows cold ! 
    I set the pillow down, and deep 
       In its striped, wrinkling fold 
    Pour out my rage ; while he to-night 
    Leans, softly-cushioned for delight, 
    And, with the wine-cup in his hand, 
    Turns some gay singer to command. 

    Apollo, thou alone can'st bring 
       To Phaon's feeble breast 
    The fire unquenchable, the sting, 
       Love's agony, love's zest. 
    Thou need'st not curse him nor transform ; 
    Give him the poet's heart of storm 
    To suffer as I suffer, thus 
    Abandoned, vengeful, covetous.