CXLII THE RAIN OF THE MORNING
Mitchell S. (Mitchell Starrett) Buck translation
THE night has worn away. The stars are far away. See, the last courtesans have returned with their lovers. And I, in the rain of morning, I write this verse upon the sand.
The leaves are laden with brilliant water. The rivulets across the paths drag along the earth and the dead leaves. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song.
Oh! how sad and alone I am here! The young regard me not; the old have forgotten me. It is well. They will learn my verses, and the children of their children.
That is what neither Myrtale nor Thais nor Glykera may say, the day when their fair cheeks deepen with wrinkles. Those who shall love after me, will sing my strophes together.