XX
Ταῖσι [δὲ] ψῦχρος μὲν ἔγεντο Θῦμος,
παρ δ’ ἴεισι τὰ πτέρα…
I SANG to women gathered round;
Forth from my own heart-springs
Welled out the passion ; of the pain
I sang if the beloved in vain
Is sighed for—when
They stood untouched, as at the sound
Of unfamiliar things,
Oh, then my heart turned cold, and then
I dropt my wings.
Trembling I seek thy holy ground,
Apollo, lord of kings ;
Thou hast the darts that kill. Oh, free
The senseless world of apathy,
Pierce it!—for when
In poet's strain no joy is found,
His call no answer brings,
Oh, then my heart turns cold, and then
I drop my wings.
All flocks are Pan's ; the groves resound
To Orpheus' golden strings ;
As swan that, secret, shrills the note
Triumphant from Apollo's throat,
My muse, from men
Her holy raptures would confound,
Turns to the woods and springs,
Whene'er my heart grows cold, and then
I drop my wings.
Or by the white cliff's cypress mound,
My music wildly rings ;
I watch the hoar sails on the track
Of moonlight; they are turning back ;
Night falls ; and when
By maiden-arms to be enwound
Ashore the fisher flings,
Oh, then my heart turns cold, and then
I drop my wings.
