Sisters doom-weaving, dread


    Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὄττι θέω· δύο μοι τὰ νοήματα·

      SISTERS doom-weaving, dread, 
    Ye Moirai incorruptibly austere 
      From cradle to the bier, 
    By whom the goings of our life are led, 

      I strive not, nor complain, 
    And what ye will accomplish with no sigh. 
      For surely I should die 
    If my own guidance issued from my brain. 

      I know not what to do, 
    Divided is my mind 'twixt love and hate ; 
      Perplexity so great 
    Can reach no end, and finds not its own clue. 

      Alcaeus trembles while 
    He runs dark fingers o'er the golden lyre ; 
      His lifted eyes require 
    With looks of fervent pain my tardy smile.

      On Mitylene's shore, 
    Coiling his nets about the lovely head, 
      Goes Phaon with free tread : 
    Remembering this, I hear the plaint no more. 

      And thus from all delight 
    My weary breast is severed day by day; 
      I find not any way 
    Of peace, until, O daughters of the night, 

      I think how, as ye sing, 
    All is decided : then my doubts grow still; 
      Your undiverted will 
    Concludes my wild suspense and wavering.