The breath has fled. Others may find an equal love;
On her doorstep I have laid myself down,
To be covered by dust when life and love
Have mingled and together flown.
35
My breath is ready to depart; but the grief in my heart,
Beating there without cease, refuses to let it go.
For she will not once give, not once,
With her sweet mouth, the peace my longing craves;
My breathing is a single long drawn sigh,
For the thought of her red mouth burns me like fire;
When will that mouth come close and whisper
What this longing heart desires to hear?
36
When I am gone open my tomb to see
The smoke that rises from it to wreathe about your feet,
For even there my heart will be burning for you:
Even from my funeral cloths the smoke will rise.
Oh beloved, come to the meadows waiting for your feet,
So that the thorns might blossom into flowers,
And fruit come to the boughs which have known
Perpetual winter only since you went away.
37
I search the gardens to find petals
As soft and perfumed as your cheek;
The west wind fans the meadows,
In every garden the poet seeks your face,
Asking you to show yourself, to dazzle the world
And all who dwell in it
With your loveliness.
Each curl of your luxurious tresses
Is a hook that catches my heart.
My heart is torn into a thousand wounds by those barbs,
From each a red drop starts, and earns the praise
Of other sad lovers, who understand
The poet’s longings and his sighs.
38
Everything around me shines like the moon;
Everything is scented with benediction.
How beautiful is life; and how beautiful are you,
Young girl, you who are like a thought of peace:
Your beauty belongs to all time.
O let us hate only war and destruction.
When we walk by the river at sunset,
When the water ripples and we hear the boatman’s song
From where the white sails flutter, far off,
We will know that his words are true:
Today by the river as we walk hand in hand
There is no suffering,
Today there is only the scented world,
Shining like your beauty, like the moon.
39
The words of love we spoke
Have stored themselves in our history
To await in secret another time:
One day they will fall, as seeds, with rain to earth,
And grow green all over the world.
40
Another dawn will never come
That finds us waking together.
I know this, and little by little
Give up the love that wants such dawns again.
And yet: something within me laughs,
Laughs and shakes it head,
At the thought of ever giving up this love
That wants such dawns again.
41
You were the morning, I was a candle in the dawn.
I surrendered my heart to your smile on awakening.
Such was the pattern of your tresses on my breast
That they will make my grave a bed of violets.
I opened the doors of my desire to you,
And you crossed the threshold:
I am the slave of what I saw in you,
And though your beauty is displayed to everyone,
No one sees your amorous look as I do.
Oh beloved, if like a breeze you pass by my tomb
I will rise in that narrow pass and tear my shroud,
Summoned by the lightness of your footfall.
42
A hot afternoon; I lay drowsing on my bed, limbs spread
To catch the breeze of the half-opened window.
The light in my room was dim
As twilight in a dark green forest,
Or the glimmer before dawn;
Such light as shy girls like for modesty.
Behold then she came, in a loose slip,
Her hair tumbling down her gleaming neck.
I pulled her slip away, not tearing it though of gauze,
And she pretended to try keeping it about her;
But yielded effortlessly, and stood naked,
Naked before my eyes: not a flaw on her body.
What shoulders, arms, I saw and touched!
What breasts so formed for my caress!
How her belly curved beneath her slender waist,
How curved her flanks, her warm thighs!
I pressed her naked body against mine, and kissed:
Who does not know the rest? Drowsy with love we rested:
May many such afternoons be mine!
43
Ring, go to her, encircle her beautiful finger;
May she receive you with a glad heart and take you
Straightway, where I kissed;
Smoothly fit her finger, lucky ring.
I, envious of my gift, would take its place
To encircle her close;
Then when I wished to touch her breasts,
Or reach inside her tunic, I would slip from her finger,
However tight and clinging the fit,
And with wonderful art fall into her garment’s folds.
Again, to close a letter up, she would touch me to her moist lips
Before she pressed the wax that seals its secret.
She would wear me as she steps into the bath,
Though I think her naked limbs would rouse my passion.
A vain wish? Away then, little gift:
Show her what loyalty comes with you,
And what desire.
44
Forbear to wonder what the Cantabrian or Scythian meditate,
Divided from us by the unsleeping sea;
Leave thought for the necessities of life, which needs little.
Youth and beauty are swiftly away,
Old age turns its back on wanton loves.
The same glory does not remain in the flower,
Nor does the ruddy moon shine with the same face:
Why fatigue yourself with thoughts?
While we can, let us recline under the tall pine,
In a shade fragrant with roses,
And wait while the cups of ardent Falernian wine
Cool in the passing stream:
And let us call wanton Lyde from her house,
To hasten with her ivory lyre, her hair
Tied in a graceful knot
In the manner of the Spartan maids.
45
What slender youth, bathed in perfumes,
Embraces you among many a rose, O Pyrrha,
In a pleasant arbour?
For whom do you tie up your golden hair
In simple elegance?
Alas! how often will he lament your faithlessness,
Like a sailor who set out on a sparkling sea
Then sees, surprised,
The water roughening and darkened by gales!
He who now enjoys you,
Fondly thinking you golden, ever lovely,
Is ignorant of the treacherous future
That awaits him at your hands.
O wretched youth, to whom, he untried,
You now appear so dazzling!
As for me, I have hung up the dripping garments
In which I nearly drowned while in your arms.
46
Tell me, Lydia, why strong Sybaris
Shuns the sun-drenched field of exercise,
Why he rides no more among his comrades,
Mastering his Gallic stalli
on with iron bit?
Why does he avoid the yellow Tiber’s foam,
Why does he neglect to oil his limbs
For the wrestling-ground,
Or show his arms bruised with weapon practice,
He who once threw the discus, the javelin,
Further than all?
Is this the work of love, Lydia,
Or just the work of your charms?
47
It is poetry’s will that I celebrate her,
Her bright darting eyes, her breast faithful to mutual love;
Who can with grace step into the dance
Or join arms with the virgins of the festival?
Would anyone change a single tress of her hair
For all the riches of Achaemenes,
Or the wealth of fertile Phrygia?
Especially when she turns her neck to meet your burning kisses,
Or with gentle cruelty denies what she would
With more delight
Have ravished than the petitioner:
And sometimes eagerly embraces for herself?
48
The caged bird owes no allegiance.
Where tonight she lies, no one can give us news;
Nor any knows, save the watching moon.
The wall is low around my garden;
The lists in the bailiff’s lodge are seldom checked.
Were we sometimes unkind?
When the shadows thickened among the pines
She crept away, concealed by silence.
The caged bird owes no allegiance,
The wind-tossed flower does not cling to the tree.
Where she lies tonight, no one can give us news;
Nor any knows, save the watching moon.
49
The mountain path is covered in fallen leaves,
So many, so many.
Looking for my lost lover I cannot find the path,
Walking the path I am like a boat in water,
Leaving no track behind.
Between the branches I see the evening sky;
When I gaze into the clouds I see
The smoke of her funeral pyre.
Our former life is now a dream;
The house we left
Has become a home for wildflowers and butterflies;
And its walls are covered in ivy.
50
Look to today.
You remember yesterday,
You envision tomorrow,
Today you live.
Live well today,
Yesterday is a good memory,
Tomorrow a good hope.
Neglect today,
Yesterday is remorse,
Tomorrow a trial.
51
Still and clear, the first weeks of May,
When trees are green and bushes soft and wet;
When the wind has stolen the shadows of new leaves
And birds linger on the last boughs that bloom.
Towards evening as the sky grew clearer yet
And the south-east was still clothed in red,
To the highest terrace we carried our jar of wine;
While we waited for the moon, our cups moved slow.
Soon, soon her golden shape rose from the forest in the east,
Swiftly, as though she had waited for us to come.
The beams of her light shone in every place,
On towers and halls dancing to and fro.
Till day broke we sat in her clear light
Laughing, singing, yet never growing tired.
In the city, where men scramble for profit and fame,
How many know such nights as this?
52
At my closed door autumn grasses grow.
What could I do to ease a rustic heart?
I planted trees, more than a hundred saplings.
When I see their beauty, as they grow by the stream-side,
I feel again as though I lived in the hills,
And many a time on public holidays
Round their railing I walk till night comes.
Do not say that their roots are still weak,
Do not say that their shade is still small;
Already I feel both in garden and house
Day by day a fresher air moves.
But most I love, lying at my window,
To hear in their branches the murmur of the breeze.
53
Green spring receives the vacant earth;
The white sun shines;
Spring wind provokes each sprout and flower
To burst and burgeon anew.
Do not hide in those dark caves where winter lurks, my thoughts!
O thoughts come back again! Do not stray!
Come back again:
Go not east or west, north or south!
O thoughts go not east,
For eastward a mighty water drowns earth’s other shore;
Tossed on its waves and heaving with its tides
The nameless terrors of the ocean ride,
Clouds gather low, fogs enfold the sea
And gleaming ice drifts past:
O thoughts go not east,
To where dangerous surges
Toss the fragile ships of men and flood them over,
Bearing them to the bottom of the deep!
O thoughts go not south, where mile on mile
The earth is burnt away and poisonous serpents
Slither through the flames;
Where on precipitous paths and deep in woods
Tigers and leopards prowl, water-scorpions wait,
And the king python rears his giant head.
O thoughts, go not south,
Where the slow-moving tortoise breathes disease
And beasts’ eyes glare from the black forest shade!
O thoughts go not west,
Where desert wastes of sand stretch endlessly;
And barbarians rage, swine-headed, hairy-skinned,
With bulging eyes, who in wild laughter shake their weapons
And prey on travellers lost in the waste of burning dunes.
O thoughts go not west where thirst and perils wait!
O thoughts go not north, to the frozen peaks
Where trees and grasses dare not grow;
Where a river runs too wide to cross, too deep to plumb,
And the sky is white with snow.
Go not north where cold winds cut and kill.
O thoughts seek not the north’s treacherous icy voids!
O thoughts come back to idleness and peace.
In quietude enjoy the meadows of your home,
There work your will and follow your desires
Till sorrow is forgotten;
Let carefree hours bring you many pleasant days
And length of life.
O thoughts come back to joys beyond all telling!
Where at harvest-time the corn stacks high,
Where pies are cooked of millet and bearded maize,
And guests enjoy steaming bowls of soup
And savour the pungency of peppered herbs,
To which the artful cook adds slices of sweet fowl,
Pigeon and yellow heron and black crane.
Come back, O thoughts;
Taste again the feasts of your youth, succulent and rich,
With salad of minced radishes in brine,
With hot spice of southernwood.
O thoughts come back to taste the meats you love!
The four strong liquors are warming at the fire
To be smooth on the drinker’s throat.
How fragrant rise their fumes, how cool their taste!
Unfermented spirit blended with white yeast
Distils the essence of cheer and forgetfulness.
O thoughts come back and let your yearnings cease!
Tunes from small-throated flutes
Gladden the feasters, and old songs are sung:
The ballad-singer’s voice rises alone,
and recalls memories.
O thoughts come back to the hollow mulberry tree!
There eight and eight the dancers sway,
Weaving their steps to the poet’s voice.
Musicians tap their bells and beat their chimes
Keeping harp and flute to their measure.
Then rival singers compete in melody, till not a tune
Is left unsung that human voice could sing.
O thoughts come back and listen to their song!
Then women enter whose red lips and dazzling teeth
Entrance the eye;
Trained in every art they discourse of poetry
And strum the lute,
And to their knowledge of history and letters
Add soft hands and delicate wrists, graceful as the spring.
O thoughts come back and let them ease your woe!
Then enter other girls with laughing lips
And sidelong glances under moth-eye brows;
Whose cheeks are fresh and red;
Girls soft of heart and long of limb,
Whose beauty by intelligence is matched.
Rose-glowing cheeks and ears with curving rim,
High-arching eyebrows, as with compass drawn,
Soft hearts and loving gestures – all are there;
Small waists and necks as slender as the clasp of brooches.
O thoughts come back to those whose tenderness
Drives anger and sadness away!
Last enter those whose every action is contrived to please;
Black-painted eyebrows and white-powdered cheeks.
They diffuse sweet scents; their long sleeves brush
The faces of feasters whom they pass,
They pluck the coats of those who will not stay.
O thoughts come back to pleasures of the night!
And at the first ray of dawn already is hung
The shooting target, where bow in hand
And arrows under arm, archers salute each other,
Each willing to yield his rights of precedence
Who shall go first;
Here is courtesy, and here leisure;
Here the exercise of skill in the fresh morning light.
O thoughts come back to these pleasures
And the quiet meadows of home!
A summerhouse with spacious rooms
And a high hall with beams stained red;
A little closet in the southern wing
Reached by a private stair.
And round the house a covered way runs
Where horses are trained.
And sometimes riding, sometimes afoot
The Good Book Page 21
