green,
a beautiful chandelier burns and glows
and in each and every flame there blazes
a wanton fever, a wanton need.
In the small room, which has been set
aglow by the chandelier’s powerful flames,
the light that appears is no ordinary light.
The pleasure of this heat has not been fashioned
for bodies that too easily take fright.
[1895; 1914]
Since Nine—
Half past twelve. The time has quickly passed
since nine o’clock when I first turned up the lamp
and sat down here. I’ve been sitting without reading,
without speaking. With whom should I speak,
so utterly alone within this house?
The apparition of my body in its youth,
since nine o’clock when I first turned up the lamp,
has come and found me and reminded me
of shuttered perfumed rooms
and of pleasure spent—what wanton pleasure!
And it also brought before my eyes
streets made unrecognizable by time,
bustling city centres that are no more
and theatres and cafés that existed long ago.
The apparition of my body in its youth
came and also brought me cause for pain:
deaths in the family; separations;
the feelings of my loved ones, the feelings of
those long dead which I so little valued.
Half past twelve. How the time has passed.
Half past twelve. How the years have passed.
[1917; 1918]
Comprehension
The years of my youth, my pleasure-bent existence—
how plainly do I see their meaning now.
What useless, foolish regrets …
But I didn’t see their meaning then.
In the dissolute life I led in my youth
my poetry’s designs took shape;
the boundaries of my art were drawn.
That is why the regrets were never firm.
And my resolutions—to master myself, to change—
would keep up for two weeks at the most.
[1895; 1917/1918]
In the Presence of the Statue of Endymion
On a chariot of white, drawn by four
snow-white mules caparisoned in silver,
I have arrived at Latmus from Miletus. I sailed over
from Alexandria in a purple trireme to perform
holy rites for Endymion, sacrifices and libations.
Behold the statue. With rapture I now look upon
the fabled beauty of Endymion. My slaves
empty panniers of jessamine; and well-omened acclamations
have awakened the pleasure of ancient days.
[1895; 1916]
Envoys from Alexandria
They hadn’t seen, in Delphi, such beautiful gifts in centuries
as those that were sent by the two, the Ptolemies,
the rival brother kings. Ever since the priests accepted them,
though, they’ve been worried about the oracle. To frame it
with finesse they’ll need all of their expertise:
which of the two, two such as these, must be displeased.
And they convene at night, secretly,
to confer about the Lagid family.
But look, the envoys have come back. They take their leave.
Returning to Alexandria, they say. They no longer have
need of oracles. The priests are overjoyed to hear this
(it’s understood they’ll keep the fabulous gifts)
but they’re also bewildered in the extreme,
clueless as to what this sudden lack of interest means.
For yesterday the envoys had grim news of which priests are unaware:
At Rome the oracle was handed down; destinies were meted there.
[1915; 1918]
Aristobulus
The palace is in tears, the king’s in tears,
King Herod inconsolably laments,
the entire country is in tears for Aristobulus
who so needlessly, accidentally drowned
playing in the water with his friends.
And also when they hear the news elsewhere,
when it gets as far as Syria,
even many of the Greeks will be distressed:
