Now shall I praise the cities, those long-surviving
(I watched them in awe) great constellations of earth.
For only in praising is my heart still mine, so violently

Gentle reader, being—as you are—
a cautious man of uncorrupted tastes,
lay aside this disobliging work,

You used to be jealous of our old nurse
who sleeps, warm heart and all, beneath the sod.
We ought to bring her flowers, even so.

Have you felt—I have—a pain that you enjoyed?
Do they say about you, too: “How strange he is!”
—I was dying, and a special agony

I prize the memory of naked ages when
Apollo relished gilding marble limbs
whose agile-fleshed originals achieved

Two warriors have engaged in combat: swords
Hash and clash together; blood is spilled.
Such passages of arms are the result

Remember, my soul, the thing we saw
  that lovely summer day?
On a pile of stones where the path turned off,

It is a terrible terrain
   no mortal eye has seen
whose image still seduces me

Behave, my Sorrow! let’s have no more scenes.
Evening’s what you wanted—Evening’s here:
a gradual darkness overtakes the town,

Once, indulgent lady—only once
  you lay your lustrous arm
on mine (against the darkness of my soul