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slave, and ready to be whipped.)
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Now that same grace I won for you, that once prevailed—
Ingratitude!—for me has only failed.
Grant me this favor and you’ll get your wish—and more;
The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
Cast off the bar and you will lose your chains, I say,
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Never to be a slave for one more day!
But you won’t hear my bootless prayers, you porter cast
In iron, while the oaken door stands fast.
Remember: towns besieged are towns that bar the door;
So porter, why fear me? We’re not at war.
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If that’s my lot, think how real foes would suffer more!
The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
I’ve come with no platoon of pikes and swords to fear.
In fact, I’d be alone if Love weren’t here,
And savage Love’s a god I can’t shake off; I’d stand
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A better chance of cutting off my hand.
So Love, you see, attends me—and a modest wine
That roils this head crowned with a scent-soaked vine.
Who’d fear such arms? They’re only trifles—nothing more;
The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
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Stubborn? Or is it sleep—sleep curse your heart!—that steers
My love-words windward from your mulish ears?
Oh, I remember when I first eluded you;
You watched the stars till twelve, alert and true.
Perhaps some sweetheart sleeps beside you now? If so,
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Your lot’s a better one than mine, you know.
I’d even welcome shackles and complain no more.
The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
Am I deceived, or did the door post shake and groan
As hinges turned and made an awful moan?
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I am deceived! The wind just knocked the door ajar,
Then took my hopes and scattered them afar.
But Boreas, young Orithyia once was yours;
Just think of her—and blast these stone-deaf doors.
The still town’s dew collects; soon night will be no more.
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The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
Now if you don’t, with torch and crowbar, I will smash
Your haughty house and turn it into ash.
Night, Love, and Wine all counsel lack of self-restraint:
Night knows no shame and Love and Wine no taint
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Of fear. But every prayer and threat I’ve tried has failed
To move a man so thick and tightly nailed.
And oh, my darling’s guard: to think that you prevailed,
Who’s better fit to watch and ward the jailed!
Already frosty Lucifer begins to roll;
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The cock cries “Wake and work!” to every soul.
But you, you wretched garland snatched from off my head,
Lie all night long on stone blocks that are dead.
You’ll be the witness in the morning so she’ll know
I spent this faithful, awful night in woe.
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And you, you slave: good-bye, and here’s your Parthian prize:
You held, indifferent to this lover’s cries.
Farewell to rigid threshold, post, and beam as well;
You are this servant’s slaves, and never fell.
I.7
