by: Anacreon (570-488 B.C.)
translated by Thomas Stanley
As lately I a garland bound,
‘Mongst roses I there Cupid found;
I took him, put him in my cup,
And drunk with wine, I drank him up.
Hence then it is that my poor breast
Could never since find any rest.
[source]
This little poem has really resonnated with me the last couple of days, even when I’m not re-reading it, I’m frequently reciting it in my mind. I really wanted to think of something more substantial to post, but this is all I’m coming up with.
