Most eloquent of all the Roman race
That is, hath been, or shall be afterward,
To thee Catullus tenders highest grace,
Sorriest of poets in his own regard;
Yea, sorriest of poets, ay, and worst,
As Tully is of all our pleaders first.

Behold! the spring moon paints
Pictures on the high waves.

Oh, How cool —
The sound of the bell
That leaves the bell itself.

A shower in spring, where an umbrella
And rain-coat walk along conversing.

The sun and moon are staring fierce
At each other in east and west.

Ours is a world of suffering,
Even if cherry-flowers bloom.

Alas! My fire is out,
And there's a shadow on the wall —
A visitor, no doubt.

The heaven's vast world stood silent; Neptune gave
A hushful pause to Ocean's roughening wave;
The Sun curbed his swift steeds; the eternal floods
Stood still; and not a breath was on the woods.

A wayside cherry tree
Is to a weary pilgrim like
A restful lullaby.

Yes! there are gods; but they no thought bestow
On human deeds, on mortal bliss or woe;
Else would such ills our wretched race assail?
Would the Good suffer? — would the Bad prevail?