We reached the grove’s deep shadow and there found
Cythera’s son in sleep’s sweet fetters bound;
Looking like ruddy apples on their tree;
No quiver and no bended bow had he;
These were suspended on a leafy spray.
Himself in cups of roses cradled lay,
Smiling in sleep; while from their flight in air,
The brown bees to his soft lips made repair,
To ply their waxen task and leave their honey there.
As a student, of Classical Civilisation, I fell in love with Plato. I won’t get started discussing my feelings about him because you will end up sitting here for days reading or will just stop following me because you will realise how
insane passionate I am. When it comes to this man and the Greek Philosophers I could just ramble on. Annnyhooooow….. I love the imagery in this poem and thought that if I like it then someone else will. I will note, you may not fully appreciate it unless you read it out loud.