offers you satrapies, and the like.
And you, you accept them in despair,
these things that you don’t want.
But your soul seeks, weeps for other things:
the praise of the People and the Sophists,
the hard-won, priceless “Bravos”;
the Agora, the Theatre, and the victors’ Crowns.
How will Artaxerxes give you them,
how will you find them in the satrapy;
and what kind of life, without them, will you live.
[1905; 1910]
But Wise Men Apprehend What Is Imminent
The gods perceive what lies in the future, and mortals, what occurs in the present, but wise men apprehend what is imminent.
—PHILOSTRATUS, Life of Apollonius of Tyana, VIII, 7
Mortal men perceive things as they happen.
What lies in the future the gods perceive,
full and sole possessors of all enlightenment.
Of all the future holds, wise men apprehend
what is imminent. Their hearing,
sometimes, in moments of complete
absorption in their studies, is disturbed. The secret call
of events that are about to happen reaches them.
And they listen to it reverently. While in the street
outside, the people hear nothing at all.
[1896; 1899; <1915]
Ides of March
Of glory be you fearful, O my Soul.
And if you are unable to defeat
your ambitions, then hesitantly, guardedly
pursue them. And the further you proceed,
the more searching, the more attentive must you be.
And when at last you reach your apogee—a Caesar;
and cut the figure of one who’s much renowned,
then take heed more than ever as you go out on the street,
a man of power, conspicuous with your retinue,
when someone approaches you out of the crowd,
a certain Artemidorus, bringing a letter,
and hurriedly says “Read this right away,
it’s something important that concerns you,”
don’t fail to stop; don’t fail to put off
all talk and business; don’t fail to
brush off all and sundry who salute and fawn
(you can see them later); let even
the Senate wait, and find out at once
the weighty contents of Artemidorus’s letter.
[1906; 1910]
Finished
Deep in fear and in suspicion,
with flustered minds and terrified eyes,
we wear ourselves out figuring how
we might avoid the certain
danger that threatens us so terribly.
And yet we’re mistaken, that’s not it ahead:
the news was wrong
(or we didn’t hear it; or didn’t get it right).
But a disaster that we never imagined
suddenly, shatteringly breaks upon us,
and unprepared—no time left now—we are swept away.
[1910; 1911]
The God Abandons Antony
When suddenly, at midnight, there comes the sound
of an invisible procession passing by
with exquisite music playing, with voices raised—
your good fortune, which now gives way; all your efforts’
ill-starred outcome; the plans you made for life,
which turned out wrong: don’t mourn them uselessly.
Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave,
bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, who is leaving.
Above all do not fool yourself, don’t say
that it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;
don’t stoop to futile hopes like these.
Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave,
as befits a man who’s been blessed with a city like this,
go without faltering toward the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the entreaties and the whining of a coward,
to the sounds—a final entertainment—
to the exquisite instruments of that initiate crew,
and bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, whom you are losing.
[1910; 1911]
Theodotus
If you are among the truly elect,
watch
