Classic Poem

I.

From the Epithalamium of Helen

Not mine is this idyll, my master Theocritus owns it;
Leased it merely hath he unto my own Helene
In old Sparta beneath fairhaired Menelaus's hall beams . . . .

II.

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa

What boy lover is he,
 Pyrrha, who lies with you
Now on roses, a slim figure with oil perfumed
In so pleasing an alcove?
Off blond brows settle back your hair
naive mistress of arts! how many times will he
curse God, crossed by half-doubt of your faith, aghast
When tempestuous hail breaks
that calm surface unused to squalls
where he rides now at ease, sunning his happy sail,
thinks no keel but his own
ploughs you, assured at all
  times
fair weather attends him
unsuspecting. Alas for them
who see only the Calm glistening. I myself
shipwrecked, know what it is,
 know not if I shall yet
get safe off, to adore this
sea's great god with an hectacomb.