As the hart holds dear the fountain,
And the bee the honied flow’rets,
So the noble grape I cherish;
After this songs melting, tender,
Kisses, too, of lips of crimson,
As thine own, O Cenzi mine.
But the wine’s might fires my senses,
And songs wake within me blitheness,
And with love intoxicated,
With thy love, mine own beloved.
And my heart no more is longing
After purple, after gew-gaws,
After what the others long for.
Happy am I in the clinking
Of the goblet filled with rich wine;
Happier still amidst sweet singing;
But my happiness were greatest,
Dared I press my kisses on a
Mouth, and that mouth only thine.
W. F. H.
The same idea is still more delicately expressed in the following Servian ballad:
Proudly cried a golden orange
On the breezy shore:
“Certainly nowhere happiness
Is found to equal mine.”
Answered a green apple
From its apple tree:
“Fool to boast, golden orange,
On the breezy shore;
For happiness such as I’ve found,
Its like cannot be seen.”
Then said the breezy meadow,
As yet untouched by scythe:
“Too conceited, little apple,
That speech of thine, meseems,
For happiness such as I’ve found,
Its like cannot be seen.”
Then spake a lovely maiden,
Unsullied by a kiss:
“Thou pratest folly, grass-plot,
Instead of sooth, I ween,
For happiness such as I’ve found
Its like cannot be seen.”
But a handsome lad made answer
To every speech they made;
“You’re mad, all mad, to utter
Such words as I’ve just heard,
For no one in the universe
Can be so blest as I.”
“Golden orange by the breezy
Shore I pluck thee now.
Apple, from thy apple tree
To-day I’ll shake thee down.
Grass-plot, I’ll mow thee level
With my scythe-strokes to-day.
Maiden, as yet unsullied
To-day I’ll kiss thy lips.”
W. F. H.