Catullus: XXXI
Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strandsThat Neptune strokes in lake and sea,With what high joy from stranger landsDoth thy old friend set foot on thee!Yea, barely seems it true to meThat no Bithynia holds me now,But calmly and assuringlyAround me stretchest homely Thou.
Is there a scene more sweet than whenOur clinging cares are undercast,And, worn by alien moils and men,The long untrodden sill repassed,We press the pined for couch at last,And find a full repayment there?Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast,And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!
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