Poetry

He seems to me to be equal to a god, he, if such were lawful, to surpass the gods, who sitting across from you again and again gazes on you, and listens to you
sweetly laughing, which snatches away from sombre me my every sense: for the instant I glance on you, Lesbia, nothing is left to me [of voice], but my tongue is numbed, a keen-edged
flame spreads through my limbs, with sound self-caused my twin ears sing, and my eyes are enwrapped with night.

Leisure, Catullus, to you is hurtful: in leisure beyond measure do you exult and pass your life.

Leisure first ruined rulers and prosperous cities.

Here is where your first draft goes,
With line breaks just as you compose,
Each stanza carefully placed,
With rhythm, form, and grace.

This version shows the initial spark,
The first attempt to hit the mark,
Raw and unrefined,
The first thoughts from your mind.

Woe-full Catullus! cease to play the fool
And what thou seest dead as dead regard!
Whilòme the sheeniest suns for thee did shine
When oft-a-tripping whither led the girl
By us beloved, as shall none be loved.
There all so merry doings then were done
After thy liking, nor the girl was loath.
Then certès sheeniest suns for thee did shine.
Now she’s unwilling: thou too (hapless!) will
Her flight to follow, and sad life to live:
Endure with stubborn soul and still obdure.
Damsel, adieu! Catullus obdurate grown
Nor seeks thee, neither asks of thine unwill;
Yet shalt thou sorrow when none woos thee more;
Reprobate! Woe to thee! What life remains?
Who now shall love thee? Who’ll think thee fair?
Whom now shalt ever love? Whose wilt be called?
To whom shalt kisses give? whose liplets nip?
But thou (Catullus!) destiny-doomed obdure.

Love we (my Lesbia!) and live we our day,
While all stern sayings crabbed sages say,
At one doit’s value let us price and prize!
The Suns can westward sink again to rise
But we, extinguished once our tiny light,
Perforce shall slumber through one lasting night!
Kiss me a thousand times, then hundred more,
Then thousand others, then a new five-score,
Still other thousand other hundred store.
Last when the sums to many thousands grow,
The tale let’s trouble till no more we know,
Nor envious wight despiteful shall misween us
Knowing how many kisses have been kissed between us.