I love thee, daughter of Kypris, for thou art beautiful and the cool scent of thy flowing hair is ravishing.

But I love also the sister who lives next door to thee, and soft-limbed Chrysis who plays the flute at thy festivals. Their love, like thine, is clear and unafraid.

Thou quiverest like a cithern string beneath my touch. Thy cheeks blush divinely and the farm flower of thy lips writhes in the fire of my kiss. . . .

Yet I will not love thee always, nor thy sister, nor Chrysis who babbles youth and happiness through the doubled reeds. For it is not thee I love; it is thy beauty only as, for an instant, I behold in thee the mystery of all the world.