Now the silver crescent
Of the moon has vanished,
With the golden Pleiads
Drifting down the west.
It is after midnight
And the time is passing,
Hours we pledged to passion
And I sleep alone.
Anger ill becomes thee,
Tender-souled Gyrinno,
Shapelier is Dica
But less loved by me.
Art thou still relentless,
Wilful one, annulling
All thy protestations
In the fervid past?
Can it, O Charites,
Be thou hast forgotten?
Dost thou love another,
Even now, perchance?
Ah, my tears are falling,
Yet in my despairing
Mood I lie and listen
For thy furtive step;
For the lightest rustle
Of thy flowing garment,
For thy sweet and panting
Whisper at the door.
Now the moon has vanished
With the golden Pleiads;
It is after midnight
And I sleep alone.
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