NONE could ever say that she,

have you come home to your own houseyour harmonious brothers, and old mother?You’re back. O happy news for me!I’ll see you safe and sound and listento your tales of Spanish places that you’ve done,and tribes, as is your custom, andhang about your neck, and kissyour lovely mouth and eyes.O who of all men is happierthan…

That I may give the last gifts to the dead,And vainly parley with thine ashes dumb:Since she who now bestows and now deniesHath ta’en thee, hapless brother, from mine eyes.But lo! these gifts, the heirlooms of past years,Are made sad things to grace thy coffin shell;Take them, all drenched with a brother’s tears,And, brother, for…

outermost India booms the eastern ocean’swonderful thunder;whether he stops with Arabs or Hyrcani,Parthian bowmen or nomadic Sagae;or goes to Egypt, which the Nile so richlydyes, overflowing;even if he should scale the lofty Alps, orsummon to mind the mightiness of Caesarviewing the Gallic Rhine, the dreadful Britonsat the world’s far end–you’re both prepared to share in…

whom, greedy, she gives her little finger to,often provoking you to a sharp bite,whenever my shining desire wishesto play with something she loves,I suppose, while strong passion abates,it might be a small relief from her pain:might I toy with you as she doesand ease the cares of a sad mind

doesn’t mean at all that the gods are dead.O land of Ionia, they’re still in love with you,their souls still keep your memory.When an August dawn wakes over you,your atmosphere is potent with their life,and sometimes a young ethereal figureindistinct, in rapid flight,wings across your hills.

and pokes with the tip of her finger, provokingcounterattacks with your mordant beak,whenever my luminous love desiressomething or other, innocuous fun,a bit of escape, I suppose, from her pain,a moment of peace from her turbulent passion,I wish I could play like she does with youand lighten the cares of my sorrowful soul.It thrills me as…