Dim is the rich-wrought broidery


    Καὶ ποθήω καὶ μάομαι·
    …ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον,

      DIM is the rich-wrought broidery 
          Athwart the Golden Throne, 
      Cypris no more in dreams I see 
          When I am lying lone : 
      But Atthis loved of yore 
      Returns, and all my hungry, sore, 
    Death-stricken senses close round her once more. 

      Of one, once loved, long dead, 
          My plectrum fain would speak ; 
      But a vague chorus haunts my head, 
          Confused, I yearn and seek. 
      O lyre, what is thy theme ? 
      At nightfall I have heard a team 
    Of swans so deathward chaunting breast the stream. 

      They feel in their deep-feathered wings 
         Tremblings to soar and dive ; 
      For all the faintness that death brings 
         They are so much alive, 
      Borne by a mighty gale 
      Of verse, triumphantly they sail 
    The great choir-master of their race to hail. 

      I must dare all, yea, I can grope 
          Through Hades in desire 
      To hear thee on thy mountain-slope, 
           My King, draw from thy lyre 
      My bosom's stricken cry : 
      Conjure, tempt, hearten me to die— 
    Apollo, give me the great hours gone by!