CXLI THE DOVE
Mitchell S. (Mitchell Starrett) Buck translation
FOR a long time I have been beautiful; the day comes when I shall no longer be a woman. And then I will know heart-rendering memories, burning solitary envy and tears in my hands.
If life is a long dream, of what good to resist? Now, four and five times a night, I demand amorous enjoyment, and when my loins are exhausted, I sink asleep wherever my body falls.
In the morning, I open my eyelids and I shiver in my hair. A dove is upon my window; I ask of her, in what month we are. She says to me: “It is the month when women are in love.”
Ah! whatever be the month, the dove speaks truly, Cypris. And I throw my two arms about my lover, and with great tremblings, I stretch my still benumbed legs to the foot of the bed.