To Catullus (in progress)

Languebant digiti, stilus et squalore latebat,
Pauper eram, volui vivere nequitiis.
Otium idem quod tum proceres temptabat et urbes
me quoque tum tempat: vera, Catulle, mihi
(heu!) tua carmina sunt. Fuerat tibi Lesbia causa
nequitiae, sed erat Nequitia ipsa mihi!
At victus quarendus erat, fama alta petenda
Tum interior Vox ait, "tolle, poeta, lyram
aut elegos tu scribe canoros: Dulcia possunt
Laetitias maestis carmina ferre animis."

My fingers lay in disuse,
my pen in squalor skulked
I wished a feckless life to live!

Ease, that kings and cities
ruled, ruled me and proved
Catullus' lauded fifty true!

O, Catullus, Lesbia proved
to be your idleness' cause.
But mine was Idleness herself!

But a man must earn his bread
and high fame must be sought.
and an Inner voice now said, "poet

lift your lyre, or else
write tuneful elegies.
Sweet song a mournful heart can soothe."