I like some of Powell's work very much, but I must say I don't much care for those translations. Here's one to compare it to, my translation of Catullus' translation of Sappho. (The last stanza, which might not be part of the poem, is of course of Catullus' invention.)
That man seems to me almost a god, or even
--dare I say it?--surpasses the gods, he who
sitting turned towards you continually
watches and catches
your dulcet laughter--all of which drains my senses,
for always when I turn and face you, Lesbia,
not a breath remains in my mouth, not a sound,
nothing is left me,
but my tongue thickens and limbs melt, as a flame
races along nerve and vein, with a mute thunder
my ears ring, and my eyes go dark under
wave after wave...
Idleness, Catullus, idleness weakens you.
From idleness you suck too deep a pleasure--
idleness, that has brought down powerful princes,
prosperous kingdoms.
Needless to say, I've taken considerable liberty with
the meter, but I fancy that it gets some of the sound of
the Latin.
I love sapphics, but even more I love alcaics. One of
the most beautiful poems in English is written in this meter, Auden's elegy for Sigmund Freud. (I don't share
his high opinion of Freud, but I can't read the poem
without tears.)
I believe Tennyson did one or two things in alcaics, but it's not a meter much used in our language.
[This message has been edited by robert mezey (edited July 10, 2004).]
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