The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy. Daniel Mendelsohn

attracted my attention suddenly. . . . . .

      Ah, there: you came with your indefinite

      charm. In history there are only a few

      lines that can be found concerning you;

      and so I could fashion you more freely in my mind.

      I fashioned you this way: beautiful and feeling.

      My artistry gives to your face

      a beauty that has a dreamy winsomeness.

      And so fully did I imagine you

      that yesterday, late at night, when the lamp

      went out—I deliberately let it go out—

      I dared to think you came into my room,

      it seemed to me you stood before me: as you must have been

      in Alexandria after it had been conquered,

      pale and wearied, perfect in your sorrow,

      still hoping they’d have mercy on you,

      those vile men—who whispered “Surfeit of Caesars.”

      [1914; 1918]

       Nero’s Deadline

      Nero wasn’t worried when he heard

      the prophecy of the Delphic Oracle.

      “Let him beware the age of seventy-three.”

      He still had time to enjoy himself.

      He is thirty years old. It’s quite sufficient,

      this deadline that the god is giving him,

      for him to think about dangers yet to come.

      Now to Rome he’ll be returning a little wearied,

      but exquisitely wearied by this trip

      which had been endless days of diversion—

      in the theatres, in the gardens, the gymnasia. …

      Evenings of the cities of Achaea …

      Ah, the pleasure of naked bodies above all …

      So Nero. And in Spain, Galba

      was secretly assembling his army and preparing it:

      the old man, seventy-three years old.

      [1915; 1918]

       Safe Haven

      Emes, a young man of twenty-eight, came by a Tenian

      ship (meaning to learn the incense trade) to this Syrian

      haven. But during the voyage he took sick,

      and just after he had disembarked,

      he died. His burial, the very cheapest kind,

      took place there. A few hours before he died,

      he whispered something about “home” and “elderly parents.”

      But no one knew who they might have been;

      nor what his native land might be, in all the wide Greek world.

      Better this way. For this way, while

      he lies dead in this safe haven,

      his parents will keep hoping he’s still alive.

      [1917; 1918]

       One of Their Gods

      Whenever one of Them would cross Seleucia’s

      marketplace, around the time that evening falls—

      like some tall and flawlessly beautiful boy,

      with the joy of incorruptibility in his eye,

      with that dark and fragrant hair of his—

      the passersby would stare at him

      and one would ask another if he knew him,

      and if he were a Syrian Greek, or foreign. But some,

      who’d paid him more attention as they watched,

      understood, and would make way.

      And as he disappeared beneath the arcades,

      among the shadows and the evening lights,

      making his way to the neighborhood that comes alive

      only at night—that life of revels and debauch,

      of every known intoxication and lust—

      they’d wonder which of Them he really was

      and for which of his suspect diversions

      he’d come down to walk Seleucia’s streets

      from his Venerable, Sacrosanct Abode.

      [1899; 1918]

       Tomb of Lanes

      The Lanes whom you loved is not here, Marcus,

      in the tomb where you come to cry, and stay for hours and hours.

      The Lanes whom you loved you have much closer to you,

      at home, when you shut yourself in and look at his picture:

      it preserves some part of what was precious in him,

      it preserves some part of what you’d loved.

      Remember, Marcus, how you brought the famed

      Cyrenian painter back from the proconsul’s palace,

      and with what artful cunning he attempted

      to persuade you both, no sooner had he seen your friend,

      that he simply had to do him as Hyacinth

      (which would make his portrait so much better known).

      But your Lanes ­didn’t loan out his beauty like that;

      and objecting firmly he told him to represent

      neither Hyacinth nor anyone else,

      but Lanes, son of Rhametichos, an Alexandrian.

      [1916; 1918]

       Tomb of Iases

      Here I lie: Iases. Throughout this great city I was renowned

      for being the most beautiful boy.

      Admired by men of deep learning—and also by the less profound,

      the common folk. Both gave equal joy

      to me. But they took me so often for a Narcissus or a Hermes

      that excess wore me out, and killed me. Passerby,

      if you’re an Alexandrian you won’t judge me. You know the yearnings

      of our life; what heat they hold; what pleasures most high.

      [1917; 1917]

       In a City of Osrhoene

      From the tavern brawl they brought him back to us, wounded—

      our friend Rhemon, around midnight yesterday.

      Through the windows we’d