Love
Book XII, 134
Translated by W. R. Paton (1916–18) · From The Greek Anthology (Loeb, vol. IV, 1918)
Our guest has a wound and we knew it not. Sawest thou not with what pain he heaved his breath up from his chest when he drank the third cup? And all the roses, casting their petals, fell on the ground from the man’s wreaths. There is something burns him fiercely; by the gods I guess not at random, but a thief myself, I know a thief’s footprints.
This translation is printed as prose in its source edition.
Cite this poem
MLA
Callimachus. “Book XII, 134.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/callimachus/59/.
Chicago
Callimachus. “Book XII, 134.” Translated by W. R. Paton. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/callimachus/59/.
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