Catullus: XXXI

 (After passing Sirmione, April 1887.) 

Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strands 
That Neptune strokes in lake and sea, 
With what high joy from stranger lands 
Doth thy old friend set foot on thee! 
Yea, barely seems it true to me 
That no Bithynia holds me now, 
But calmly and assuringly 
Around me stretchest homely Thou. 

Is there a scene more sweet than when 
Our 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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