Erotica Romana | Page 3

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 æther 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,