For yet that thought, shipwrecked, again draws breath,
And cries to heaven: O Night, O Winter, say,
What are the dead doing down there in their graves?
XVI SERMIONE
“Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle.”—Catullus.
See how green Sermio laughs in the lake's lucid waters,
she the peninsula's flower!
The Sun pours down his caresses, while, all around, the Benaco
shines like a great silver cup