Ἦρι μὲν αἵ τε Κυδώνιαι
μηλίδες ἀρδόμεναι ῥοᾶν
ἐκ ποταμῶν, ἵνα Παρθένων
κῆπος ἀκήρατος, αἵ τ’ οἰνανθίδες
αὐξόμεναι σκιεροῖσιν ὑφ’ ἕρνεσιν
οἰναρέοις θαλέθοισιν· ἐμοὶ δ’ ἔρος
οὐδεμίαν κατάκοιτος ὥραν.
†τε† ὑπὸ στεροπᾶς φλέγων
Θρηΐκιος βορέας
ἀΐσσων παρὰ Κύπριδος ἀζαλέ-
αις μανίαισιν ἐρεμνὸς ἀθαμβὴς
ἐγκρατέως παιδόθεν †φυλάσσει†
ἡμετέρας φρένας.
(Ibycus, fr. 286)

In spring appear the Cydonian
apples, watered by the rivers’
floods, in the untouched
garden of the Virgins, while the grape-blossoms
swell and flourish beneath the shadows
grape-vines cast. But there is no season when
my passion lays calm in bed.
†and† like the Thracian north wind,
burning from the lightning blast,
rushing from Cypris with scorch-
ing madness, dark and fearless
powerfully ever since I was a boy †it guards†
my mind.
(tr. Stuart Douglas Olson)



Ἔρος αὖτέ με κυανέοισιν ὑπὸ
βλεφάροις τακέρ’ ὄμμασι δερκόμενος
κηλήμασι παντοδαποῖς ἐς ἄπει-
ρα δίκτυα Κύπριδος ἐσβάλλει·
ἦ μὰν τρομέω νιν ἐπερχόμενον,
ὥστε φερέζυγος ἵππος ἀεθλοφόρος ποτὶ γήρᾳ
ἀέκων σὺν ὄχεσφι θοοῖς ἐς ἅμιλλαν ἔβα.
(Ibycus fr. 287)

Eros once again from beneath dark
eyelids darting me a melting glance
with spells of all sorts casts me
into the inextricable nets of the Cyprian.
How I tremble at his onslaught,
just as the yoke-bearing horse, contest winner,
near old age, unwillingly goes with swift
chariot back into the race.
(tr. Marguerite Johnson & Terry Ryan)