Book V, 227

Every year is the vintage, and none in gathering the grapes looks with reluctance on the curling tendrils. But thee, the rosy-armed, the crown of my devotion, I hold enchained in the gentle knot of my arms, and gather the vintage of love. No other summer, no spring do I hope to see, for thou art entirely full of delight. So may thy prime endure for ever, and if some crooked tendril of a wrinkle comes, I will suffer it, for that I love thee.