Текст оригинала на английском языке
From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 19
Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep; Hark! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul. Tell me, tell me, is not this All a stilly scene of bliss? Who, my girl, would pass it by? Surely neither you nor I.
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