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 pa**ing,
Hours we pledged to pa**ion
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.