She had already kissed Anthony’s dead lips,
she had already wept on her knees before Caesar . . .
And her servants have betrayed her. Darkness falls.
The trumpets of the Roman eagle scream.

And in comes the last man to be ravished by her beauty—
such a tall gallant!—with a shamefaced whisper:
“You must walk before him, as a slave, in the triumph.”
But the slope of her swan’s neck is tranquil as ever.

Tomorrow they’ll put her children in chains. Nothing
remains except to tease this fellow out of mind
and put the black snake, like a parting act of pity,
on her dark breast with indifferent hand.

translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward