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Title: Erotica Romana

Author: Johann Wolfgang Goethe

Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7889]
Posting Date: August 4, 2009

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EROTICA ROMANA ***




Produced by Harry Haile and Mike Pullen





EROTICA ROMANA

By Johann Wolfgang Goethe





I

Here's where I've planted my garden and here I shall care for love's blossoms--

As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:

Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,

Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.

You, stand here at my side, good Priapus--albeit from thieves I've

Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.

--Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience

One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,

Bridling at nature's pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,

Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.




II

Tell me ye stones and give me O glorious palaces answer.

Speak O ye streets but one word. Genius, art thou alive?

Yes, here within thy sanctified walls there's a soul in each object,

ROMA eternal. For me, only, are all things yet mute.

Who will then tell me in whispers and where must I find just the window

Where one day she'll be glimpsed: creature who'll scorch me with love?

Can't I divine yet the paths through which over and over

To her and from her I'll go, squandering valuable time?

Visiting churches and palaces, all of the ruins and the pillars,

I, a responsible man, profit from making this trip.

With my business accomplished, ah, then shall only one temple,

AMOR's temple alone, take the initiate in.

Rome, thou art a whole world, it is true, and yet without love this

World would not be the world, Rome would cease to be Rome.




III

More than ever I dreamed, I have found it: my happy good fortune!

Cupid sagaciously led past those palazzos so fine.

He of course knows very well (and I have also discovered)

What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.

One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy--but I know you,

Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!

We were by no means inveigled to enter facades so majestic;

Somber cortile we passed, balcony high and gallant,

Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal

Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.

Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;

Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.

--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,

What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?

Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?

These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.

Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a

Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?

If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,

Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?

Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone

All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?

I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,

At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.

Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--

Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.

Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.

Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.

Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;

Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.

We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--

And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.




IV

Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,

High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.

"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life? "

"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love? "

How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast

Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!

Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.

Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse revenge.

That's the way "Marlborough," the ditty, follows the Englishman's travels

Down to Livorno from France, thence from Livorno to Rome,

All of the way into Naples and then, should he flee on to Madras,

"Marlborough" will surely be there, "Marlborough" sung in the port.

Happily now I've escaped, and my mistress knows Werther and Lotte

Not a whit better than who might be this man in her bed:

That he's a foreigner, footloose and lusty, is all she could tell you,

Who beyond mountains and snow, dwelt in a house made of wood.




V

Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:

I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.

Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:

Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.

Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others

Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.

When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then

Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.

Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting

When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.

Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer--

Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.

At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander--then promptly

Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.

When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber

Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way

Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf

Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.




VI

We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers,

Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well.

We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer

Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home--

May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt,

Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white--

Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism

(Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host).

Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal

And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her.

Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn:

Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts.

Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes

We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare--

Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it--

Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult.

Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her.

Often will she turn up, ever in a new form.

Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis.

In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived.

So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,

Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.

Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.

He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.

Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling

Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.

Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;

Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.

When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly

Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.

O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.

But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.




VII

Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.

Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.

Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients

With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.

Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--

If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.

Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's

Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,

As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,

See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.

While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,

She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.

And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions

(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).

In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems

And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,

Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.

Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.

Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when

For the triumvirs he similar service performed.




VIII

"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?

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.
We were by no means inveigled to enter facades so majestic;

Somber cortile we passed, balcony high and gallant,

Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal

Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.

Here he provides me with ev'rything, sees that I get what I call for;

Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.

--Isn't that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,

What would you give to me more? --You, Nipotina, what yours?

Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?

These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.

Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not lift a

Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?

If she's to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,

Doesn't he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?

Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone

All of it come off entire, if he's to learn how she feels?

I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,

At but a lover's mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.

Quickly he carries the girl as she's clad in chemise of coarse linen--

Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.

Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.

Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.

Jupiter's welcome to more from his Juno if he can get it;

Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.

We are content with Cupid's delights, authentic and naked--

And with the exquisite creak /crack of the bed as it rocks.




IV

Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging,

High society's lords, ladies so groomed and refined.

"Tell me, was Werther authentic? Did all of that happen in real life? "

"Lotte, oh where did she live, Werther's only true love? "

How many times have I cursed those frivolous pages that broadcast

Out among all mankind passions I felt in my youth!

Were he my brother, why then I 'd have murdered poor Werther.

Yet his despondent ghost couldn't have sought worse revenge.

That's the way "Marlborough," the ditty, follows the Englishman's travels

Down to Livorno from France, thence from Livorno to Rome,

All of the way into Naples and then, should he flee on to Madras,

"Marlborough" will surely be there, "Marlborough" sung in the port.

Happily now I've escaped, and my mistress knows Werther and Lotte

Not a whit better than who might be this man in her bed:

That he's a foreigner, footloose and lusty, is all she could tell you,

Who beyond mountains and snow, dwelt in a house made of wood.




V

Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:

I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.

Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:

Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.

Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others

Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.

When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then

Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.

Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting

When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.

Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer--

Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.

At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander--then promptly

Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.

When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber

Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way

Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf

Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.




VI

We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers,

Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well.

We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer

Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home--

May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt,

Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white--

Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism

(Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host).

Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal

And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her.

Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn:

Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts.

Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes

We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare--

Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it--

Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult.

Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her.

Often will she turn up, ever in a new form.

Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis.

In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived.

So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish,

Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown.

Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only.

He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet.

Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling

Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark.

Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets;

Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair.

When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly

Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how.

O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone.

But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.




VII

Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.

Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.

Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients

With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed.

Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid--

If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.

Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's

Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,

As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,

See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.

While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,

She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.

And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions

(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).

In her embrace--it's by no means unusual--I've composed poems

And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back,

Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.

Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.

Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when

For the triumvirs he similar service performed.




VIII

"Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches?

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.

I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones.

Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not. Listen here:

Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living?

Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives.

Where will you find a fit theme for your song? --It is I must provide it.

As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that. "

All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him?

I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees.

Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems

While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind.

Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging

Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand,

Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory.

Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact.

Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you.

Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too?

So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at

His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him?

Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests,

Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck.

What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments

Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy

When the night rocked us to sleep--but in slumber she's moving away now,

From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand.

Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant;

Only returning desire knows oscillation or change.

Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking

Into my own eyes. No--don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form!

Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me

All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords.

Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member.