The Art of Love by Ovid

mind,
    He fits the gear on the boy, explains the technique—
    Like any mother bird instructing her weak
    Fledglings—and straps on the wings he’s made
    For his own shoulders, anxiously poised for this raid
    On the unknown. On the verge of flight, while the tears run
    Unchecked down his cheeks, he kisses his small son.
    Not from a mountain, but a modest height
    Above the plain, the pair launched on their tragic flight.
    Daedalus worked his wings, glanced back at his son’s, held the steady
    Course he’d planned. Already
    The wonder of it thrilled them. Fear gone, Icarus flew
    With growing skill and daring. (The airborne two
    Froze a lone angler in mid-action,
    Who dropped his quivering rod in stupefaction.)
    Naxos, Paros, Delos—Apollo’s favourite isle—
    Slid by. To the north, meanwhile,
    Lay Samos, southward Lebynthos, the thick, shady trees
    Of Calymne, and the rich fisheries
    Of Astypalaea. Now it was that the boy,
    Childishly reckless in the careless joy
    Of flying, left his sire
    And soared higher and higher,
    Dangerously close to the sun-god’s fire.
    The wax was melting, the fastenings gave, his arms flailed
    To get a grip on the thin air, and failed.
    Terrified, he looked down from the skies
    At the waves, and panic blackness filled his eyes.
    The wax all melted, his arms, now bare,
    Thrashed in the unsupporting air,
    With a shudder he plunged, and as he went called out,
    “Father, Father, I’m falling!” till his shout
    Was choked by the grey-green sea. Aghast,
    His father, now a father in the past,
    Was crying, “Icarus, where are you?,” crying,
    “Icarus, whereabouts in the sky are you flying?”
    Then he saw the floating plumes.
    Earth has his bones; his name the sea assumes.
    [L ATIN :
Non potuit Minos…
]
        Minos failed to clip man’s wings, and here am I
    Hoping to pin down a god who can fly!
    You’re a dupe if you mix with Thessaly’s black arts:
    The growth on a foal’s forehead, animals’ secret parts,
    The herbs of Medea, the mumbo-jumbo songs
    Of up-country witches—none of them prolongs
    Love. If they worked, Medea would have detained
    Jason by spells, and Circe kept Ulysses chained.
    Don’t give love-potions, they’re dangerous and bad:
    They can affect the brain and drive girls mad.
    In fact, don’t play foul. If you want to be loved, be nice:
    A fine face and physique never suffice.
    You may be Nireus, the handsomest man in Homer’s book,
    Or Hylas, whom the naughty, doting naiads took,
    But to keep your girl and not be thrown off balance
    By being deserted, you must have mental talents
    As well as physical charms. Beauty’s a frail flower,
    It grows less with the years, it weakens by the hour.
    The violet dies, the bell-mouthed lily goes,
    The hard thorn’s left behind after the rose.
    It’s the same with you, my debonair
    Young fellow: soon grey hair
    And furrowing wrinkles will arrive.
    Now is the time to contrive
    A good mind to add to your looks: that alone will endure
    To the end, to the pyre. Make sure
    You cultivate the liberal arts, and learn to speak
    Not only perfect Latin but good Greek.
    Ulysses wasn’t handsome, but he had
    Such eloquence that two sea-goddesses were mad
    For his love. Calypso wept at his haste to be going
    And swore the water was too rough for rowing!
    Again and again she asked about Troy, and he told the tale
    In so many different ways it was never stale.
    There on the shore, the lovely goddess begged, “Friend,
    Tell me about King Rhesus’ bloody end.”
    And he with a stick he happened to have in his hand
    Drew diagrams on the firm sand.
    “Here’s Troy,” he’d say—and with the damp
    Sand built a wall. “Here’s Simois. Our camp
    Imagine over there. There’s the plain”—and he smoothed a plain—
    “Where we butchered the spy Dolon on the look-out to gain
    Achilles’ steeds. Rhesus camped
there;
that night I rode
    Back on the captured horses.” He would have showed
    Calypso more,
    But a wave raced up the