Translation of CATULLUS,
Poem 3

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Mourn, Loves and Cupids
and every man with any sense of loveliness.
My sweetheart's thrush is dead,
the thrush that was my sweetheart's darling,
dearer to her than her own eyes.
Honeysweet it was, and knew its own
mistress as well as a girl knows her mother.
Never would it stir from its mistress's lap
but, hopping about now this way, now that,
forever chirruped to her alone.
Now it goes by the shadowy path
To that place from which they say no man returns.
A curse upon you, accursed shades
of Death, that devour all things pretty:
such a pretty thrush have you taken from me.
O the sin of it! O poor little thrush!
Because of you my sweetheart's dear
eyes are now red and sadly swollen with weeping.

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