Rarescunt

Iam terras volucremque polum fuga veris aquosi
lassat et Icariis caelum latratibus urit;
ardua iam densae rarescunt moenia Romae.
hos Praeneste sacrum, nemus hos glaciale Dianae
Algidus aut horrens aut Tuscula protegit umbra,
Tiburis hi lucos Anienaque frigora captant.
te quoque clamosae quae iam plaga mitior Urbi
subtrahit? aestivos quo decipis aëre soles?
quid tuus ante omnes, tua cura potissima, Gallus,
nec non noster amor, dubium morumne probandus
ingeniine bonis? Latiis aestivat in oris,
anne metalliferae repetit iam moenia Lunae
Tyrrhenasque domos? quod si tibi proximus haeret,
non ego nunc vestro procul a sermone recedo.
certum est: inde sonus geminas mihi circumit aures.
(Statius, Silvae 4.4.12-26)

Already the flight of watery spring wearies earth and whirling sky and burns heaven with Icarian barking. Already the lofty buildings of crowded Rome are less populous. Some sacred Praeneste shelters, some Diana’s chilly wood, or shivering Algidus, or Tusculum’s shade, yet others make for the groves of Tibur and Anio’s cool. You too, what gentler clime now draws you from the clamorous city? With what air do you trick the suns of summer? What of your chief care, your favorite, Gallus, whom I too love (to be praised for gifts of character or mind, who shall say?)? Does he spend the season on Latium’s coast or does he revisit the walls of quarried Luna and his Tyrrhene home? But if he stays close to you, I do not now go far from your talk, that’s certain, and that’s why both my ears are buzzing.
(tr. David Roy Shackleton Bailey)