Like The Gods. . .

In my eyes he matches the gods, that man who sits there facing you--any man whatever-- listening from closeby to the sweetness of your voice as you talk, the sweetness of your laughter: yes, that--I swear it-- sets the heart to shaking inside my breast, since once I look at you for a moment, I can't speak any longer, but my tongue breaks down, and then all at once a subtle fire races inside my skin, my eyes can't see a thing and a whirring whistle thrums at my hearing, cold sweat covers me and a trembling takes ahold of me all over: I'm greener than the grass is and appear to myself to be little short of dying. But all must be endured, since even a poor [