The Beaker

A beautifully-fashioned brimming beaker

I held tightly in my own two hands,

Sipped the greedy toothsome wine from the rim,

Pain and care in one draft thus to quell.

Love came within and found me sitting there,

And he laughed beseemingly out loud,

As it were taking pity on the poor fool:

“Friend, I know a fairer vessel yet,

Worth sinking all your soul itself within;

What would you give, were I to make it yours,

And with some other nectar fill it for you?”

O like a friend how has he kept his word!

Since he, Lida, joined you unto me

In sweet affection after long desire.

When I embrace your dearmost lovely limbs

And taste the balm of long-awaited love

From your true uniquely your true lips,

Blissfully I speak unto my soul:

“No, such a vessel none but only Love,

No other god has made or had for use!

Such a form not Vulcan can beat out

With his wit-endowed, fine-hewn hammers!

Upon the leafy hills Lyaeus makes

The oldest and the wisest of his fauns

Tread the choicest clusters of his vine,

Himself rules at the ferment’s secret rite:

Such a drink he’ll not brew with his labor!”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe