Intermissa, Venus, diu
     rursus bella moves? Parce, precor, precor.
Non sum qualis eram bonae
     sub regno Cinarae. Desine, dulcium
mater saeva Cupidinum,
     circa lustra decem flectere mollibus
iam durum imperiis: abi,
     quo blandae iuvenum te revocant preces.
Tempestivius in domum
     Pauli, purpureis ales oloribus,
comissabere Maximi,
     si torrere iecur quaeris idoneum.
Namque et nobilis et decens
     et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis
et centum puer artium
     late signa feret militiae tuae,
et quandoque potentior
     largi muneribus riserit aemuli,
Albanos prope te lacus
     ponet marmoream sub trabe citrea.
Illic plurima naribus
     duces tura, lyraeque et Berecyntiae
delectabere tibiae
     mixtis carminibus non sine fistula;
illic bis pueri die
     numen cum teneris virginibus tuum
laudantes pede candido
     in morem Salium ter quatient humum.
Me nec femina nec puer
     iam nec spes animi credula mutui,
nec certare iuvat mero
     nec vincire novis tempora floribus.
Sed cur heu, Ligurine, cur
     manat rara meas lacrima per genas?
Cur facunda parum decoro
     inter verba cadit lingua silentio?
Nocturnis ego somniis
     iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor
te per gramina Martii
     campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.
          (Horace, Odes 4.1)

τῆς γάρ τοι γενεῆς ἧς Τρωΐ περ εὐρύοπα Ζεὺς 
δῶχ' υἷος ποινὴν Γανυμήδεος, οὕνεκ' ἄριστοι
ἵππων ὅσσοι ἔασιν ὑπ' ἠῶ τ' ἠέλιόν τε 
     (Homer, Iliad 5.265–267)

Τρωὸς δ' αὖ τρεῖς παῖδες ἀμύμονες ἐξεγένοντο
Ἶλός τ' Ἀσσάρακός τε καὶ ἀντίθεος Γανυμήδης,
ὃς δὴ κάλλιστος γένετο θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων:
τὸν καὶ ἀνηρείψαντο θεοὶ Διὶ οἰνοχοεύειν
κάλλεος εἵνεκα οἷο ἵν' ἀθανάτοισι μετείη. 
     (Homer, Iliad 20.231–235)

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me . . . . he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed . . . . I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadowed wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air . . . . I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeathe myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you

     (Walt Whitman, final lines of "Song of Myself," 1855 ed.)