And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
ROBERT BURNS.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, O, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω*
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω
Maid of Athens! I am gone.
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω
LORD BYRON.
* Zóë mou, sas ágap[-o]; My life. I love thee.