With love nor languorous nor vain

VIII

Ἔγω δὲ φίλημ’ ἀβροσύναν, καί μοι τὸ λάμπρον
ἔρος…ἀελίω καὶ τὸ κάλον λέλογχεν·

WITH love nor languorous nor vain, 
   I prize, in their degrees, 
The perfect odour, the red fruit 
   Ungathered on the trees ; 
The broidered strap of Lydian work 
   That Gorgo's foot doth deck, 
The strings of tender garlands twined 
   About her tender neck : 
The feel of fine-wove linen 
   When the limbs spring to pass 
In lightsome dance bare-footed 
   Trampling the blooms of grass ; 
The pressure of the cushion, 
   The golden goblet bright, 
The bubbles of the wine-draught— 
   Each thrills me with delight: 
For each of them brings honour, 
   Being delicate to sense, 
To the beauty of the body, 
   And to Love's omnipotence. 
Love has to me the splendour, 
   The glory of the sun ; 
And the least action 'neath his eye 
   Must be divinely done.