No More Learning

'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.