I sing the seasons, and their causes, and the starry signs that set beneath the earth and rise again, drawing my lore from annals old. In my young years I toyed with themes to match, and gave offence to none now my steeds treat a larger field. “Hurt or whole, did I desert thy standards? Thou, thou hast ever been the task I set myself. Has thou an old wound rankling in thy tender breast?” “Goddess,” I answered, “thou wottest of my wound.” She laughed, and straightway the sky was serene in that quarter. “What wouldst thou with me?” she said, “surely thou wast wont to sing of loftier themes. “O gracious Mother of the Twin Loves, 1” said I, “grant me thy favour.” The goddess looked back at the poet. June FASTI BOOK 4, TRANSLATED BY JAMES G.
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