XXV
Ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν·
Ah for Adonis ! So
The virgins cry in woe :
Ah, for the spring, the spring,
And all fleet blossoming—
The delicate and slight
Anemones, rose-bright,
With buds flushed in and out,
Like Aphrodite's pout
When she is soft and coy ;
Ah for the mortal boy,
Who would not hold her dear,
And now is dying here !
Ah for Adonis ! Show,
Ye virgins, what ye know !
The white narcissi breathe
Between the grass, and sheathe
Their fragrance as they die ;
From the low bushes nigh,
Mimosa's golden dust
A little later must
Be squandered on decay :
And can the fair youth stay,
When every lovely bloom
Goes to obscuring doom ?
Ah for Adonis ! No,
He must to Hades go :
A goddess may not keep
Safe from the mortal sleep
Those limbs and those young eyes ;
Nor can her frantic cries
Recall one transient grace
Secure Immortals trace
In things of earthly mould.
Ungirt and sable-stoled
She wanders through the glades,
And tears her heavenly braids.
Ah for Adonis ! Throw
All flowers that quickly grow
And perish on his bed !
He will come back, though dead,
When spring returns, and fill
Cythera's arms until
He must again depart,
Again her bosom smart.
O virgins, joy is sent,
And soon with sorrow blent;
All we have loved is made
To re-appear, and fade.
