Gladly would share with me half of their hard fought renown,

Could I but grant them my bed for one single night, and its comfort,

But the poor wretches are held stark in cold Orkian grip.

Therefore, ye living, rejoice that love keeps you warm for a while yet,

Until cold Lethe anoints, captures your foot in its flight.


XIII

They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet

Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,

Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished

So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:

Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;

Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;

While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes

Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.

But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances