Catullus 65

Although care calls me, finished by continual grief from the learned maidens, Ortalus, and the thought of my mind cannot bring out the sweet offspring of the Muses, by such great evils is it itself in turmoil—for the flowing wave from Lethe’s recent surge besets the pale foot of my brother, whom Trojan land on Rhoeteum’s shore crushes stolen from our eyes. Will I never afterward see you, brother more loveable than life? But certainly I will always love (you), I will always sing sad songs about your death, such as Daulias (Procne) sings under the dense shadows of the branches, lamenting the fate(s) of squandered Itylus. But yet in such great laments, Ortalus, I send you these translated lines of the son of Battus (Callimachus), lest you think your words have slipped from my mind, entrusted in vain to the wandering winds, as an apple, sent as secret gift of her promised runs from the chaste lap of the maiden, which is shaken out, placed under the soft cloak of the forgetful wretch, while she jumps up at the arrival of her mother, and that is pushed headlong with a downward course; a guilty blush remains on this one’s sad face.