| EPIGRAMS - XI.8 | THE BOY |
| Martial (M. Valerius Martialis) | trans. A.S.Kline |
|
Lassa quod nesterni spirant opobalsama dracti, ultima quod curvo quae cadit nura croco; poma quod hiberna maturescentia capsa, arbole quod verna luxuriosus ager; de Palatinis dominae quod Serica prelis, sucina virginea quod regelata manu; amphora quod nigri, sed longe, fracta Falerni, quod qui Sicanias detinet hortus apes; quod Cosmi redolent alabastra focique deorum, quod modo divitibus lapsa corona comis: singula quid dicam? Non sunt satis; omnia misce hoc fragrant pueri basia mane mei. Scire cupis nomen? Si propter basia, dicam. Jurasti. Nimium scire, Sabine, cupis. |
Odour of dried balsam from last night’s vases, the last scent that falls from the saffron’s arc; that of apples ripening in winter storage, or a field luxuriant with spring’s green shoots, silks from our Empress’s Palatine presses, or amber warmed there in a young girl’s hand; or a shattered jar, not too near, of dark Falernian, or a garden where they keep Sicilian bees; what the alabaster boxes Cosmus sells, smell of, the god’s altars, a wreath slipped from perfumed hair - why speak of them? None will do, mingle them all: and that’s the fragrance of my boy’s dawn kisses. You wish to know his name? If it’s re: kisses, I’ll tell you. You swear it! Sabinus, you’re far too anxious to know. |
Trans. Copyright © A.S.Kline 2003