Below the ground, bereft of breath,
Silent, alone, the close-shut tomb enfoldeth thee.
To my songs thou wouldst not hearken, and songless shalt thou be;
Thou wouldst not love me here on earth,
In death thou shalt loveless be.
Mr. Edmonds, in his translations, has kept much of the simple charm of the Greek:
I have a little daughter rare,
That’s like the golden flowers fair,
My Cleis.
I would not take all Lydia wide,