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O Horati, O Catulle, O Cicero, O Vergili et Ovidi quo iistis? ubi invenire possum? certe nec in libris neque in ludis. |
| 5 | Mortuos mi dicunt esse vos, linguam magnam etiam; neminibus idoneam in nova orbis terra, nunc verbos significationem habere Mihi haec fortiter nego; |
| 10 | non ex odio sed propter misericordem. nam eis magis carmine aut fabula aut libello desunt. Bene requiescete, Horati et ali. brevi tempore e somno excitabunt, |
| 15 | operaque tua aestimabuntur atque eis vitam iterum agetis. |
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O Horace, O Catullus, O Cicero, O Virgil and Ovid: Where have you gone to? Where can I find you? Surely not in the books, not in the schools. |
| 5 | They tell me that you're dead, your great language too; suitable for no one in their modern world, now that your words have no meaning. As for me, I deny these things strongly; |
| 10 | not out of hate, but pity. For they're missing more than a poem, more than a story or even a book. Rest well, Horace and others. In a short time they will awaken, |
| 15 | And they will value your works, And to them, you will be living once more. |