Lydia

Youth abandons us, and the Graces as well;

Desires of love fly after them,

And easy sleep. What good does the worry

Of eternal expectations do?

The wings of Old Saturn carries off our fairest days,

And the flower bent in the evening breeze wilts;

Come into the shade of the pine or beneath the bushy plane tree

To taste late-blooming love.

Let us circle this white hair with roses,

Let us drink, for there is still time, but quickly!

Your liqueur, oh Bacchus, of gloomy sorrow

Is the sweetest remedy.

Child, steep the wines in that spring,

And have Lydia come with her happy laugh,

With her white lyre and hair tied back

In the Laconian style.