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One summer afternoon, the sultry day half gone,
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I sought my bed to spread my limbs upon,
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With half my window opened wide and half shut tight,
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Admitting just the softest woodland light—
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The faintest gloaming as lord Phoebus starts to go,
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5
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Or night gives way before the dawn’s faint glow.
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(They were the rays in which shy virgins try to hide,
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In hopes timidity won’t yield to pride.)
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Then came Corinna in her tunic cinched and sheer;
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Her fair neck felt her parted hair fall clear.
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10
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They say Semiramis went to her bed like this,
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And Lais, who for countless men meant bliss.
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I snatched that tunic from her, and it caused no harm,
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But still she fought me for it in alarm.
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She fought like one who fought a battle not to win,
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15
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But struggled weakly, only to give in.
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And as she stood, a sweet disorder in her dress,
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Her body showed no fault; my eyes said yes.
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Such arms I saw and touched—soft, lean and strong, yet fine!
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Her round breasts fit two hands—and they were mine!
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20
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How smooth the rest of her, her legs so soft and lean,
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Her waist and thigh as fair as I have seen.
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But why describe each charm when every charm I saw
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Was lovely, nude? We hugged; I filled with awe.
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Who doesn’t know what’s next? Fatigued, we stopped to rest
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25
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So I might pray, “Make all mid-days so blessed”
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I.6
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You there! Yes, you—my darling’s doorman-porter-Janus:
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Swing back those hinges crying out “Unchain us!”
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I don’t ask much—just leave the door ajar a crack
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So I can slip in sideways—and get back.
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There’s been so much hard love of late that now, I’m thin
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5
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Enough and light enough to wriggle in.
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And that’s what’s taught me how to tip-toe past the guard:
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Love’s suffering. Love makes footsteps soft, not hard.
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There was a time when every phantom caused me fright;
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I was amazed that men went out at night.
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10
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Then Cupid, with his tender mother, laughed at me.
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He whispered, “You’ll get brave; just wait and see.”
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And presto! Love walked in. Now, flighty nighttime spirit,
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Or knife that threatens doom, I just don’t fear it.
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Instead, it’s you I fear, and you’re the one I flatter,
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15
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Who threatens thunderous ruin and can batter
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My heart. Throw back the bolt so you can see me better.
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My tears have drenched the door; it can’t be wetter.
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You know I carried pleas to her! (You stood there stripped
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And trembling, slave, and ready to be whipped.)
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20
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Now that same grace I won for you, that once prevailed—
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Ingratitude!—for me has only failed.
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Grant me this favor and you’ll get your wish—and more;
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The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
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Cast off the bar and you will lose your chains, I say,
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25
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Never to be a slave for one more day!
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But you won’t hear my bootless prayers, you porter cast
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In iron, while the oaken door stands fast.
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Remember: towns besieged are towns that bar the door;
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So porter, why fear me? We’re not at war.
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30
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If that’s my lot, think how real foes would suffer more!
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The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
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I’ve come with no platoon of pikes and swords to fear.
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In fact, I’d be alone if Love weren’t here,
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And savage Love’s a god I can’t shake off; I’d stand
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35
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A better chance of cutting off my hand.
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So Love, you see, attends me—and a modest wine
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That roils this head crowned with a scent-soaked vine.
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Who’d fear such arms? They’re only trifles—nothing more;
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The midnight hours fly; unbar the door.
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