LXV

Drained as I am by a grief that never ends,

Anxiety, Hortalus, calls me away from the versed virgins –

The pulse in my mind lacks the strength to quench the sweet fruit

Of the Muses as it buoys on agonies so great.

For recently in the swirling Lethe the flowing tides

Stroked the paling feet of my brother,

He the land of Troy buried beneath the Rhoetean shore,

Stolen from my eyes …

… [corruption in text] …

A brother sweeter than life, I, you,

Will I never look at you again after this?

There is no doubt I will always love you, though,

Always sing sorrowful songs of your death,

As Daulias sang through the impenetrable shadows

Of branches as she grieved for the fate of Itylus who died –

But all the same, in grief as deep as this, Hortalus, I send

This poem I translated for you from Callimachus

In case you should think that your words have flowed

From my mind, given to the empty breezes for nothing,

As an apple, a secret gift sent to a bride,

Falls from the chaste lap of the virgin,

Placed there beneath the poor forgetful girl’s soft clothing

Until she springs up at her mother’s approach, it is shaken out,

And sent rolling straight to the ground,

And a guilty blush drenches her sorrowful face.