Αἴ με τιμίαν ἐπόησαν ἔργα
τὰ σφὰ δοῖσαι·
THEY bring me gifts, they honour me,
Now I am growing old;
And wondering youth crowds round me
As if I had a mystery
And worship to unfold.
O gather round me, golden youth,
For justly ye divine
I am your prophetess forsooth,
And ye shall learn love's very truth
Who to my lyre incline.
To me the tender, blushing bride
Doth come with lips that fail;
I feel her heart beat at my side,
And cry— " Like Ares in his pride,
Hail, noble bridegroom, hail! "
And to the doubting boy afraid
Of too ambitious bliss
I whisper— " None is like thy maid,
And I her fond heart will persuade
To feel thou feelest this."
Or if Persephone should take
me some maid full dear,
While friends their lamentations make,
I rise, and for the lover's sake
I praise her loud and clear.
Ye bring me gifts, ye honour me
For music and for rhyme ;
And if at last my soul sings free,
It is that once I stood, as ye,
Dumb in youth's golden clime.