Susurro

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Fortunate senex, ergo tua rura manebunt,
et tibi magna satis, quamvis lapis omnia nudus
limosoque palus obducat pascua iunco.
non insueta gravis temptabunt pabula fetas
nec mala vicini pecoris contagia laedent.
fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota
et fontis sacros frigus captabis opacum;
hinc tibi, quae semper, vicino ab limite saepes
Hyblaeis apibus florem depasta salicti
saepe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro;
hinc alta sub rupe canet frondator ad auras,
nec tamen interea raucae, tua cura, palumbes
nec gemere aëria cessabit turtur ab ulmo.
(Vergil, Ecl. 1.46-57)

Fortunate old man, your fields will still be yours.
And they’re enough for you although the bare rock
and the marsh with all its reeds and mud abut your fields.
No unfamiliar fodder will tempt your pregnant ewes,
nor will any disease from a neighbor’s flock bring harm to them.
Fortunate old man, here between the rivers
you know and the sacred springs you’ll lie in the cool shade.
Here your hedge, as it always has, at your neighbor’s line
will pasture on willow buds those Hyblaean bees,
which soon will coax you to sleep with their light murmuring hum.
There beneath the high rock the vinedresser
will sing to the breeze and all the while your hoarse pigeons
and your turtle dove, high in the elm, will murmur and coo.
(tr. Barbara Hughes Fowler)

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