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.