This boat you see, friends, will tell you <br />that she was the fastest of craft, <br />not to be challenged for speed <br />by any vessel afloat, whether <br />driven by sail or the labour of oars. <br />The threatening Adriatic coast won’t deny it, <br />nor the isles of the Cyclades, <br />nor noble Rhodes, nor fearful Bosphorus, <br />nor the grim bay of the Black Sea <br />where, before becoming a boat, she was <br />leafy wood: for on the heights of Cytorus <br />she often hissed to the whispering leaves. <br />The boat says these things were well known to you, <br />and are, Amastris and box-wood clad Cytorus: <br />she says from the very beginning she stood <br />on your slope, that she dipped her oars <br />in your water, and carried her owner from there <br />over so many headstrong breakers, <br />whether the wind cried from starboard <br />or larboard, or whether Jupiter struck at the sheets <br />on one side and the other, together: <br />and no prayers to the gods of the shore were offered <br />for her, when she came from a foreign sea <br />here, as far as this limpid lake. <br />But that’s past: now hidden away here <br />she ages quietly and offers herself to you, <br />Castor and his brother, heavenly Twins.<br /><br />Gaius Valerius Catullus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-boat/
