His attractive face a bit pale,
his chestnut eyes looking tired, dazed,
twenty-five years old but could be taken for twenty,
with something of the artist in the way he dresses
—the color of his tie, shape of his collar—
he drifts aimlessly down the street,
as though still hypnotized by the illicit pleasure,
the very illicit pleasure that has just been his.
Reprinted from C.P. CAVAFY: Collected Poems Revised Edition, translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard, edited by George Savidis. Translation copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Princeton University Press. For reuse of these translations, please contact Princeton University Press.
The Canon