Not the remotest desire ever to call them mine own. 
Years thus fleeted away!  Although our houses were only

Twenty paces apart, yet I thy threshold ne’er cross’d. 
Now by the fearful flood are we parted!  Thou liest to Heaven,

Billow! thy beautiful blue seems to me dark as the night. 
All were now in movement; a boy to the house of my father

Ran at full speed and exclaim’d:  “Hasten thee quick to the strand
Hoisted the sail is already, e’en now in the wind it is flutt’ring,

While the anchor they weigh, heaving it up from the sand;
Come, Alexis, oh come!”—­My worthy stout-hearted father

Press’d, with a blessing, his hand down on my curly-lock’d head,
While my mother carefully reach’d me a newly-made bundle,

“Happy mayst thou return!” cried they—­” both happy and rich!”
Then I sprang away, and under my arm held the bundle,

Running along by the wall.  Standing I found thee hard by,
At the door of thy garden.  Thou smilingly saidst then “Alexis!

Say, are yon boisterous crew going thy comrades to be? 
Foreign coasts will thou visit, and precious merchandise purchase,

Ornaments meet for the rich matrons who dwell in the town. 
Bring me, also, I praythee, a light chain; gladly I’ll pay thee,

Oft have I wish’d to possess some stich a trinket as that.” 
There I remain’d, and ask’d, as merchants are wont, with precision

After the form and the weight which thy commission should have. 
Modest, indeed, was the price thou didst name!  I meanwhile was gazing

On thy neck which deserv’d ornaments worn but by queens. 
Loudly now rose the cry from the ship; then kindly thou spakest

“Take, I entreat thee, some fruit out of the garden, my friend
Take the ripest oranges, figs of the whitest; the ocean

Beareth no fruit, and, in truth, ’tis not produced by each land.” 
So I entered in.  Thou pluckedst the fruit from the branches,

And the burden of gold was in thine apron upheld. 
Oft did I cry, Enough!  But fairer fruits were still falling

Into the hand as I spake, ever obeying thy touch. 
Presently didst thou reached the arbour; there lay there a basket,

Sweet blooming myrtle trees wav’d, as we drew nigh, o’er our heads. 
Then thou began’st to arrange the fruit with skill and in silence: 

First the orange, which lay heavy as though ’twere of gold,
Then the yielding fig, by the slightest pressure disfigur’d,

And with myrtle the gift soon was both cover’d and grac’d. 
But I raised it not up.  I stood.  Our eyes met together,

And my eyesight grew dim, seeming obscured by a film,
Soon I felt thy bosom on mine!  Mine arm was soon twining

Round thy beautiful form; thousand times kiss’d I thy neck. 
On my shoulder sank thy head; thy fair arms, encircling,