Muse

In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure. The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure And harked to me with smile -- without speed, Along the ringing holes of the reed, I got to play with my non-artful fingers The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers, And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade. From morn till night in oaks' silent shade I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin; Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision, And taking locks aside of the enchanting face, She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace. The reed became alive in consecrated breathing And filled the heart with holiness unceasing. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver My muse In the days of my youth she was fond of me, And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me. To me with smile she listened; and already gently Along the openings echoing of the woods Was playing I with fingers tender: Both hymns solemn, god-inspired And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd. From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; And with sparing reward me gladdening Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, From my hands the flute herself she took. Now filled the wood was with breath divine And the heart with holy enchantment filled. Translated by Ivan Panin