Ode III

Yestereve I delivered to a star tidings for thee:
‘Present,’ I said, ‘my service to that moon-like form.’
I bowed, I said: ‘Bear that service to the sun
Who maketh hard rocks gold by his burning.’
I bared my breast, I showed it the wounds:
‘Give news of me,’ I said, ‘to the Beloved whose drink is blood.’
I rocked to and fro that the child, my heart, might become still;
A child sleeps when one sways the cradle.
Give my heart-babe milk, relieve us from its weeping,
O thou that helpest every moment a hundred helpless like me.
The heart’s home, first to last, is thy city of union:
How long wilt thou keep in exile this heart forlorn?
I speak no more, but for the sake of averting headache,
O Cup-bearer make drunken my languishing eye.