A poem by Alcaeus of Mytilene (c. 625/620 – c. 580 BC)

The rain of Zeus descends, and from high heaven

A storm is driven:

And on the running water-brooks the cold

Lays icy hold;

Then up: beat down the winter; make the fire

Blaze high and higher;

Mix wine as sweet as honey of the bee


Then drink with comfortable wool around

Your temples bound.

We must not yield our hearts to woe, or wear

With wasting care;

For grief will profit us no whit, my friend,

Nor nothing mend;

But this is our best medicine, with wine fraught

To cast out thought.


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Alcaeus Ἀλκαῖος Алкей
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