"Hora Diei Primula" (First Hour of the Day)

This is a poem about my morning, in dactylic hexameter.

Hôra diêî prîmula vixdum frîgida luxit
cum piget hôrologî nôstrôs tardôs crepitandô.
Fêmina, fêlês perdormiscunt, strâgula cêdô.
Angustum trâns andrônem errô, istîc lavor ut nôn
crînês pernôdôsus et hâlitum odôrior essem.
Somniculôsâ surrectûrâ, palla cubîlis
rursus in uncillum exuitur. Vestês solitâtôs,
quî mihi (nê caream satis ordinis atque negôtî)
induerendî sunt, sûmô dê sêde gerôque.
Sî tempus superest, edimus; sîque hôra secunda
nôndum deinde acta est, â nôbîs prandia nostra
compônuntur. Ad omniferum carrum atque labôrem,
per vîcôs, ê vîcînô, proficiscor eâcum.


The cold first hour of the day has scarcely come to light
when the clock vexes us, the sluggish ones, with its noisemaking.
The woman, the cat, they keep on sleeping, I let them have the covers.
I wander across the narrow hallway, I wash there so that
my hair won't be tangled, nor my breath overly fragrant.
The sleepy one is about to rise, so the bedclothes
get taken off back onto their little hook. My over-accustomed clothes,
which, lest I lack sufficient class and business,
I must put on, I take from their place and wear.
If there is time, we eat; if the second hour
has not then passed, our lunches by us
are assembled. To the all-carrying cart and work,
through the quarters of the city and out of the neighborhood, I set out with her.

Last modified July 16, 1996/Mut. prox. a.d. xvi Kal. Aug. MCMXCVI E.C.
Marc Moskowitz/marc@suberic.net