I sang to women gathered round


    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.