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The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
Spring — that corn-fed, husky milkmaid —Is busy at her chores with never a letup.The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia —See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,And the tines of pitchforks simply glow with health.These days — these days, and these nights also!With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at…
I drink the gall of skies in autumn, tuberoses’
I drink the gall of nights, of crowded parties’ noises,Of sobbing virgin verse, and of a throbbing dream.We fiends of studious fight a battle everlastingAgainst our daily bread – can’t stand the sober mood.The troubled wind of nights is merely a toastmasterWhose toasts, as like as not, will do no one much good.Heredity and death…
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Nero was not worried when he heard
‘Let him fear the seventy three years.’He still had ample time to enjoy himself.He is thirty. More than sufficientis the term the god allots himto prepare for future perils.Now he will return to Rome slightly tired,but delightfully tired from this journey,full of days of enjoyment —at the theaters, the gardens, the gymnasia…evenings at cities of…
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Not like a king but an actor, he put on a grey cloak
Plutarch, Life of DimitriosWhen the Macedonians deserted himand showed they preferred Pyrrhos,King Dimitrios (a noble soul) didn’t behave-so they said-at all like a king.He took off his golden robes,threw away his purple buskins,and quickly dressing himselfin simple clothes, he slipped out-just like an actor who,the play over,changes his costume and goes away.
In the royal decree that Alexios Komninos
the very intelligent Lady Anna Dalassini,noteworthy in both her works and her manners-much is said in praise of her.Here I offer one phrase only,a phrase that is beautiful, sublime:‘She never uttered those cold words ‘mine’ or ‘yours’.’
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‘My end came while I was happy.
During my last days, though he tried to make me believethat he wasn’t worried, I often noticed his eyesred from crying. And when he’d thinkI’d fallen asleep, he’d collapse at the edge of my bedas though out of his mind. But we were both young menof the same age, twenty-three years old.Fate is a traitor….
I love my work, and I’m very careful about it.
The day’s had a bad effect on me:it grows darker and darker. Endless wind and rain.I’m more in the mood for looking at things than for speaking.In this picture I’m now gazing at, a handsome boyis lying down close to a spring,maybe exhausted from running.What a handsome boy; what a heavenly noonhas caught him up…
The young poet Evmenis
‘I’ve been writing for two years nowand I’ve composed only one idyll.It’s my single completed work.I see, sadly, that the ladderof Poetry is tall, extremely tall;and from this first step I’m standing on nowI’ll never climb any higher.’Theocritus retorted: ‘Words like thatare improper, blasphemous.Just to be on the first stepshould make you happy and proud.To…
Loved, idealized voices
lost for us like the dead.Sometimes they speak to us in dreams;sometimes deep in thought the mind hears them.And, with their sound, for a moment returnsounds from our life’s first poetry –like distant music fading away at night.
Like the beautiful bodies of those who died before growing old,
roses by the head, jasmine at the feet –so appear the longings that have passedwithout being satisfied, not one of the granteda single night of pleasure, or one of its radiant mornings.