LXII
Play up, play up thy silver flute;
The crickets all are brave;
Glad is the red autumnal earth
And the blue sea.
Play up thy flawless silver flute; 5
Dead ripe are fruit and grain.
When love puts on his scarlet coat,
Put off thy care.
LXIII
A beautiful child is mine,
Formed like a golden flower,
Cleis the loved one.
And above her I value
Not all the Lydian land, 5
Nor lovely Hellas.
LXIV
Ah, but now henceforth
Only one meaning
Has life for me.
Only one purport,
Measure and beauty, 5
Has the bright world.
What mean the wood-winds,
Colour and morning,
Bird, stream, and hill?
And the brave city 10
With its enchantment?
Thee, only thee!