A poem by Alcaeus of Mytilene (c. 625/620 – c. 580 BC)


The rain of Zeus descends, and from high heaven

A storm is driven:

And on the running water-brooks the cold

Lays icy hold;

Then up: beat down the winter; make the fire

Blaze high and higher;

Mix wine as sweet as honey of the bee

Abundantly;

Then drink with comfortable wool around

Your temples bound.

We must not yield our hearts to woe, or wear

With wasting care;

For grief will profit us no whit, my friend,

Nor nothing mend;

But this is our best medicine, with wine fraught

To cast out thought.

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