Grow vocal to me, O my shell divine!

     Ἄγε δη χέλυ δῖά μοι
    φωνάεσσα γένοιο·

GROW vocal to me, O my shell divine ! 
I cannot rest; 
Not so doth Cypris pine 
To raise her love to her undinted breast 
When sun first warms the earth, as I require 
To roll the heavy death from my recumbent lyre. 

O whilom tireless voice, why art thou dumb ? 
To-day I stood 
Watching the Maenads come 
From a dark fissure in the ilex-wood 
Forth to the golden poplars and the light ; 
My tingling senses leapt to join that concourse bright. 

Passed is the crowd, passed with his buoyant flute 
The Evian King : 
My plectrum still is mute 
Of beauty, of the halcyon's nest, of spring ; 
Though deep within a vital madness teems, 
And I am tossed with fierce, disjointed, wizard dreams. 

Apollo, Dionysus passes by, 
Adonis wakes, 
Zephyr and Chloris sigh : 
To me, alas, my lyre no music makes, 
Though tortured, fluttering toward the strings I reach, 
Mad as for Anactoria's lovely laugh and speech. 

For thou—where, in some balmy, western isle 
Each day doth bring 
Seed-sowing, harvest smile, 
And twilight drop of fruit for garnering, 
Where north wind never blows—dost dwell apart, 
Keeping a gentle people free from grief of heart. 

Sun-god, return ! Break from thine old-world bower, 
Thy garden set 
With the narcissus-flower 
And purple daphne ! To thy chariot get, 
Glorious arise as on thy day of birth, 
And spread illuminating order through the earth. 

I scan the rocks : O sudden mountain-rill, 
That sure hast heard 
His footsteps on the hill, 
Leaping from crag to crag to bring me word— 
Lapse quiet at my feet; I hear along 
My lyre the journeying tumult of an unbreathed song.