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.