Renata Ferrari
Posts : 27 Location : Roma, Italia
| Subject: A Song For Bacchus Mon Apr 11, 2011 3:10 am | |
| I didn't know that Lorenzo was a poet. *surprised*
The poem below is by Lorenzo De Medici (1449-1492)
A Song For Bacchus
How beautiful our Youth is That’s always flying by us!
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
Here are Bacchus, Ariadne,
Lovely, burning for each other:
Since deceiving time must flee,
They seek their delight together.
These nymphs, and other races,
Are full of happiness forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
These delighted little satyrs
With their nymphs intoxicated,
Set a hundred snares now for them,
In the caves and in the bushes:
Warmed by Bacchus, all together
Dancing, leaping there forever,
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
All the nymphs are more than happy
To be tricked by their satyrs,
There’s no defence from loving
Except for coarse ungrateful people:
Now they’re mingling together,
Playing, singing there forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
And that lump behind them, now
On the ass, is old Silenus:
Happy and inebriated,
Full of food and years already:
Though he can’t stand to attention,
He still laughs with joy forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
Midas follows all the others:
Turns to gold the things he touches.
Where’s the joy in owning treasure,
If it doesn’t give you pleasure?
And where’s the sweet taste for a man
Who only feels his thirst forever?
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
Ope’ your ears wide, everyone:
Let none dine on their tomorrows:
Old and young ones, all at play,
Girls and boys, be glad today,
Banish every tearful sorrow,
Make each day a holiday.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.
Ladies and you youthful lovers,
Long live Bacchus: long live Love!
Everyone sing, dance and play!
Hearts, be all on fire with sweetness!
No faintness now or hint of sadness!
Whatever is to be must be:
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow. | |
|