To Pyrrha
​
Is he slender and youthful in your bed of rose,
My Pyrrha? Is he oiled fragrantly, bright-perfumed,
Urgent now in your alcove?
Your gold hair, is it set just right--
Loosely tied? If he's not used to a lover's woes
He'll curse gods, and your word, on which he had presumed,
When he sees that your tides drove
Him through tempests of liquid night.
He has faith in the gold which he enjoys at will
Now. "It's mine evermore . . . loveliness evermore. . . .
He hopes, but does he know winds
Change at will? Every glitter is
Gold for fools. As for me, there is a god who still
Rescues men who've gone overboard, and the clothes I wore
Hang now, high in his shrine, since
All real power in these seas is his.
Translated from Horace
Center Journal, 3:3 (summer, 1984)