His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?

Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,

Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.

What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments

Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy

When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,

From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.

Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant;

Only returning desire knows oscillation or change.

Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking

Into my own eyes. No--don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form!

Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me

All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords.

Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member.

Had Ariadne lain thus, Theseus never had fled.