C. P. Cavafy. Days of 1908.

 That was the year when he stayedWithout work, for a living playedCards, or backgammon; or borrowed and never paid.He was offered a place at a smallStationer’s, three pounds a month. It didn’t suit him.It was not decent pay at all.He refused it without hesitation;He was twenty-five, and of good education.Two or three shillings he made, more or less.From cards and backgammon what could a boy skim;At the common places, the cafés of his grade,Although he played sharply, and picked stupid players.As for borrowing, that didn’t always come off.He seldom struck a dollar, oftener he’d fallTo half, and sometimes as low as a shilling.Sometimes, when he got away from the grimNight-sitting, for a week at a time or more,He would cool himself at the baths, with a morning swim.The shabbiness of his clothes was tragical.He always wore the same suit, always displayedA suit of cinnamon brown discoloured and frayed.O summer days of nineteen hundred and eight, I recallThe picture of you, and out of it seems to fade,Harmoniously, that cinnamon suit discoloured and frayed.The picture of you has preserved himJust as he would take off, would fling downThe unworthy clothes, the mended under clothes,And remain all naked; faultlessly beautiful; a wonder.Uncombed and lifted up his hair was;His limbs a little sunburntFrom the morning nakedness at the baths and on the beach.