No More Learning

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.