Love is a kind of war, and no assignment for cowards.
Where those banners fly, heroes are always on guard.
Soft, those barracks? They know long marches, terrible weather,
Night and winter and storm, grief and excessive fatigue.
Often the rain pelts down from the drenching cloudbursts of heaven,
Often you lie on the ground, wrapped in a mantle of cold.
Did not Apollo once, in bondage to King Admetus,
Care for the heifers, and find sleep on a pallet of straw?
What Apollo could stand is not disgraceful for mortals;
Put off your pride, young man; enter the bondage of love.
If you are given no path where the journey is level and easy,
If in your way you find barricade, padlock on door,
Use your inventive wits, come slipping down through a skylight,
Clamber, hand over hand, where a high window swings wide.
She will be happy to know that she was the cause of your danger;
More than anything else, that will be proof of your love.
Think of Leander, who could, no doubt, get along without Hero,
Yet he would swim the straits, so his beloved might know.
No comments:
Post a Comment