When they saw Patroklos dead — so brave and strong, so young — the horses of Achilles began to weep; their immortal nature was upset deeply by this w… - Konstantinos P. Cavafy

What he timidly imagined in his school days, is opened up, revealed to him. And he makes the rounds, stays out all night, gets swept up in things. And as is (for our art) only right, pleasure rejoices in his fresh, hot blood, an outlaw sensual abandon overcomes his body; and his youthful limbs give in to it.

The Tomb of Lanes Marcus, the Lanes whom you loved is not here
in this tomb where you visit and weep for hours.
The Lanes whom you loved is nearer, Marcus,
when you close yourself in your room and gaze on his portrait;
that image preserved all that was worthy in him;
that image preserved all that you loved. Do you remember, Marcus, when you brought
from the proconsul’s palace the famous painter from Cyrene,
and as soon as he laid eyes on your friend,
he tried to persuade you with his artist’s cunning
that he should draw him, without question, as Hyacinth
(that way the portrait would garner more fame)? But your Lanes didn’t put his beauty on loan like that;
firmly opposing the man, he demanded to be portrayed
not as Hyacinth, nor as anyone else,
but as Lanes, son of Rhametichus, an Alexandrian.

But the old mirror that during all the many years / of its existence had looked upon / thousands of objects and faces, / the old mirror was happy now, / filled with the satisfaction that it had received, / if only for a few minutes, beauty in all its perfection.