|A native of Edessa, all obscure, —
a stranger he in Antioch, — writes much.
And lastly to last linus the last touch
he puts. So the round number is secure:
one hundred poems. But so much writing, such
intentness on verse-making and Greek phrase
have tired him; — everything seems now to be
a burden. —
Howbeit, one memory promptly stays
his languor: the transcendent “This is he”
that Lucian sleeping heard in other days.
|Translated by John Cavafy|
|(Poems by C. P. Cavafy. Translated, from the Greek, by J. C. Cavafy. Ikaros, 2003) |
|- Original Greek Poem
|- Translation by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard|