by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology V.147
Which, the spring meadow, or
Heliodora’s wild tresses, grass
bursting green at verge of spring,
or the blond-gold weave and braid
I cannot stop caressing? Which?
Spring is her rival with white violets,
Narcissus amid the myrtle berries
makes one forget all other beauties.
Here come the lilies, mocking me
with fragrance a woman can wear
with artifice only. Crocus and hyacinth,
what more delicate, fair
as a new born fledgling, young
as never shall we be again? --
oh, unbearable, the thought
that roses will come back again,
her only real rivals. Put all
in a wreath, and watch
as she embrows herself,
the petals scattering
amid those impossible curls.
For this, most flowers die
willingly.
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