In spring the Kydonian
apple trees, watered by flowing
streams there where the Maidens
have their unravished garden, and vine buds,
growing under the shadowy branches
of the vines, bloom and flourish.
For me, however, love
is at rest in no season
but like the Thracian north wind,
ablaze with lightning,
rushing from Aphrodite with scorching
fits of madness, dark and unrestrained,
it forcibly convulses from their very roots
my mind and heart.
Once again Love darts me a melting
glance from under dark eyelids
and by magical charms of all sorts entangles me
in Aphrodite's endless nets.
I swear that at his approach, I tremble
like a prize-winning horse still under the yoke in old age
who against his will drafts the swift chariot to the contest.