Quotes from Alkaios

Let us drink. Why wait for the lighting of the lamps? Night is a hair's breadth away. Take down the great goblets from the shelf, dear friend, for the son of Semele and Zeus gave us wine to forget our pains. Mix two parts water, one wine, and let us empty the dripping cups—urgently.

Daughter of the rock and the gray sea you fill all hearts with triumph, tortoise shell of the sea.

Zeus rumbles and a mammoth winter of snow pours from the sky; agile rivers are ice. Damn the winter cold! Pile up the burning logs and water the great flagons of red wine; place feather pillows by your head, and drink. Let us not brood about hard times. Bakchos, our solace is in you and your red wines: our medicine of grape. Drink deeply, drink.

What birds are these wildgeese—flying from precincts where the earth and oceans end— with their enormous wings and speckled throats?

O violet-haired, holy, honeysmiling Psapfo

Wash your gullet with wine for the Dog Star returns with the hear of summer searing a thirsting earth. Cicadas cry softy under high leaves, and pour down shrill song incessantly from under their wings. The artichoke blooms, and women are warm and wanton— but men turn lean and limp for the burning Dog Star parches their brains and knees.

Come with me now and leave the land of Pelops, mighty sons of Zeus and Leda, and in kindness spread your light on us, Kastor and Polydeukes. You who wander above the long earth and over all the seas on swift horses, easily delivering mariners from pitiful death, fly to the masthead of our swift ship, and gazing over foremast and forstays, light a clear path through the midnight gloom for our black vessel.

Why water more wine in the great bowl? Why do you drown your gullet in grape? I cannot let you spill out your life on song and drink. Let us go to sea, and not let the wintry calm of morning slip by as a drunken sleep. Had we boarded at dawn, seized rudder and spun the flapping crossjack into the wind, we would be happy now, happy as swimming in grape. But you draped a lazy arm on my shoulder, saying: 'Sir, a pillow, your singing does not lead me to ships'.

The great house glitters with bronze. War has patterned the roof with shining helmets, their horsehair plumes waving in wind, headdress of fighting men. And pegs are concealed under bright greaves of brass that block the iron-tipped arrows. Many fresh-linen corslets are hanging and hollow shields are heaped about the floor, and standing in rows are swords of Chalkidian steel, belt-knives and warrior's kilts. We cannot forget our arms and armor when soon our dreadful duties begin.

Not homes with beautiful roofs, nor walls of permanent stone, nor canals and piers for ships make the city—but men of strength. Not stone and timber, nor skill of carpenter—but men brave who will handle sword and spear. With these you have a city and walls.

It is late, for the harvest is in. Before, we hoped that the full vines would bring a plenitude of fine grapes, but the clusters are slow to ripen and the landlords picked unripe bunches from the branch. We have many grapes now—green and sour.

One and all, you have proclaimed Pittakos, the lowborn, to be tyrant of your lifeless and doomed land. Moreover, you deafen him with praise.