Part 9

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