Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love.
Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty--
Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you.
Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors
That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone.
Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric,
Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind?
Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate
Now is my lover--Ah, who is my prelate but you?
Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city,
Has any cleric brought me--swear it I will--to his bed.
I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers
Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough.
One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive
Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time.
Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who
Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red.
For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated.'
So said my father although--Mother was not much impressed.
Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded.
You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape.
Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children
Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too.
As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces
And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away."
These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved
Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes.
I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted
Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent.
For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it.
Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow.
Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors,
Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX
How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days
Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light.
Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy;
Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay.
Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded,
Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection.
Here in an aether more clear now a luster encircles my forehead.
Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day.
Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender,
And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun.
What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes
Jupiter, Father, as guest--me, to ambrosial halls?
See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying:
Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear:
How I am come to this place I no longer can say--I was
Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill.
Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you?
May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me!
Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents,
After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim?
You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger
From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again.
"Poet, come to your senses!"--Forgive me, Jupiter, is not
Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you?
Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then
Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X
When you were small, you say, neither did others consider you f air, nor
Even your mother find praise--and I believe it--
Till you grew bigger, developing quietly over the years. I
Picture you to myself as an unusual child.
Also the blossoms on grapevines are wanting in shape and in color,
Although the fruit when it's ripe pleases both mankind and gods.
XI
Kindling autumnal fire in a rustic, convivial fireplace
(How the sticks crackle and spew flames and glittering sparks!)
Strikes me especially pleasant this evening. Before all my tinder
Dies away into coals, coals then to ashes decline,
She will be back and new faggots as well as big logs will be blazing,
Making a festival where lovers will warm up the night.
Then in the morning, officious, she'll leave the bed of her lover,
Rouse adroitly the flames out from their ashes anew.
Cupid has lent to her above others the gift of cajoling
Up from the ashes desire, just when slumber's begun.
XII
All of those greats: Alexander, Caesar and Henry and Fredrick,
Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,
Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,
But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.
Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,
Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.
XIII
They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire--even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?
XIV
Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina?
Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain.
They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres
Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves.
Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess
Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat.
Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private
(Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love).
Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration
Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome?
Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it
Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night."
Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled,
Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure.
Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie
Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams.
Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing
Caskets securely locked, richly wreathed with grain.
Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning--
Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light.
Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover
What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed.
What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess,
Once upon a time had to a hero been kind.
It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted
Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore.
That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess
Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields.
As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres,
Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love.
--Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished,
Turned and beckoned their loves--love, do you comprehend?
See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle?
Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.
XV
Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you.
Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time.
I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated--
I recognize it with thanks--life and writings to me.
Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something
Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend.
Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment:
He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives.
You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins,
Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallowed space.
How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists!
In their own ateliers often I 've visited them.
As for their works, why, I formed those myself--now this time I'm boasting
Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true.
Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened?
Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone?
Friend, do you hope you can create again? --The school of the Ancients
Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you.