December 1903 (1904)
Even though I may not speak about my love—
I may not talk about your hair, or your lips, or your eyes;
still your face, which I keep inside my soul;
the sound of your voice, which I keep inside my mind;
the September days that dawn within my dreams;
my words and phrases take their shape and color from these,
whatever subject I may touch upon, whatever idea I may be speaking of.
—Constantine Cavafy
Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn
The Mirror in the Entrance
In the entrance hallway of that sumptuous home
there was an enormous mirror, very old;
acquired at least eighty years ago.
A strikingly beautiful boy, a tailor’s assistant,
(on Sunday afternoons, an amateur athlete),
was standing with a package. He handed it
to one of the household, who then went back inside
to fetch a receipt. The tailor’s assistant
remained alone, and waited.
He drew near the mirror, and stood gazing at himself,
and straightening his tie. Five minutes later
they brought him the receipt. He took it and left.
But the ancient mirror, which had seen and seen again,
throughout its lifetime of so many years,
thousands of object and faces—
but the ancient mirror now became elated,
inflated with pride, because it had received upon itself
perfect beauty, for a few minutes.
—Constantine Cavafy
Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn
Come Back
Come back often and take hold of me,
beloved feeling come back and take hold of me,
when the memory of the body reawakens,
and old longing once more passes through the blood;
when the lips and skin remember,
and the hands feel like they’re touching once again.
Come back often and take hold of me at night,
when the lips and skin remember . . .
—Constantine Cavafy
Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn
Days of 1903
I never found them, ever again—all so quickly lost . . .
the poetic eyes, the pallid
face. . . .in the gloaming of the street. . . .
I’ve not found them since—things I came to have completely by chance,
things that I let go so easily;
and afterwards, in anguish, wanted back.
The poetic eyes, the pale face,
those lips, I haven’t found them since.
—Constantine Cavafy
Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn