Art thou the top-most apple
The gatherers could not reach,
Reddening on the bough?
Shall not I take thee?
Art thou a hyacinth blossom
The shepherds upon the hills
Have trodden into the ground?
Shall not I lift thee?
Free is the young god Eros,
Paying no tribute to power,
Seeing no evil in beauty,
Full of compassion.
Once having found the beloved,
However sorry or woeful,
However scornful of loving,
Little it matters.