Didn't anyone ever tell you, Oscar?
Then why, Ligurinus, why
do my eyes sometimes fill, even spill over?
Why, sometimes, when I'm talking
do I suddenly have nothing to say? Why
do I hold you in my arms
in certain dreams, certain nights, and in others
chase you endlessly across
the Field of Mars, into the swirling Tiber?
Horace
Odes, Book IV, i
Richard Howard, translation
J.D. McClatchy, editor
Princeton University Press, 2002©
Daniel Mendelsohn, NYRB©
No comments:
Post a Comment