Αὐτὰρ ὀραῖαι στεφανηπλόκευν·
THEY plaited garlands in their time ;
They knew the joy of youth's sweet prime,
Quick breath and rapture:
Theirs was the violet-weaving bliss,
And theirs the white, wreathed brow to kiss,
Kiss, and recapture.
They plaited garlands, even these ;
They learnt Love's golden mysteries
Of young Apollo;
The lyre unloosed their souls ; they lay
Under the trembling leaves at play,
Bright dreams to follow.
They plaited garlands—heavenly twine !
They crowned the cup, they drank the wine
Of youth's deep pleasure.
Now, lingering for the lyreless god—
Oh yet, once in their time, they trod
A choric measure.