You run away from me as a fawn does, Chloë,
searching the trackless hills for its frightened mother,
not without aimless terror
of the pathless winds, and the woods.

For if the coming of spring begins to rustle
among the trembling leaves, or if a green lizard
pushes the brambles aside,
then it trembles in heart and limb.

And yet I’m not chasing after you to crush you
like a fierce tiger, or a Gaetulian lion:
stop following your mother,
now, you’re prepared for a mate.