Sisters doom-weaving, dread


Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὄττι θέω· δύο μοι τὰ νοήματα·

  SISTERS doom-weaving, dread, 
Ye Moirai incorruptibly austere 
  From cradle to the bier, 
By whom the goings of our life are led, 

  I strive not, nor complain, 
And what ye will accomplish with no sigh. 
  For surely I should die 
If my own guidance issued from my brain. 

  I know not what to do, 
Divided is my mind 'twixt love and hate ; 
  Perplexity so great 
Can reach no end, and finds not its own clue. 

  Alcaeus trembles while 
He runs dark fingers o'er the golden lyre ; 
  His lifted eyes require 
With looks of fervent pain my tardy smile.

  On Mitylene's shore, 
Coiling his nets about the lovely head, 
  Goes Phaon with free tread : 
Remembering this, I hear the plaint no more. 

  And thus from all delight 
My weary breast is severed day by day; 
  I find not any way 
Of peace, until, O daughters of the night, 

  I think how, as ye sing, 
All is decided : then my doubts grow still; 
  Your undiverted will 
Concludes my wild suspense and wavering.