Οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν οὔρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες
πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος
AS on the hills the shepherds tread A hyacinth down, and withered
The purple flower
Is pressed to earth, and broken lies,
Its virgin stem no more to rise
In summer hour ;
And death comes stealing with the dew
That yester evening brought anew
A fresher growth and fragrant grace,
Ere footsteps crushed the grassy place :
So underneath thy scorn and pride
My heart is bowed, and cannot hide
How it despairs.
O Phaon, weary is my pain ;
The tears that from my eyelids rain
Ease not my cares ;
My beauty droops and fades away,
Just as a trampled blossom's may.
Why must thou tread me into earth—
So dim in death, so bright at birth ?