Dim is the rich-wrought broidery


Καὶ ποθήω καὶ μάομαι·
…ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον,

  DIM is the rich-wrought broidery 
      Athwart the Golden Throne, 
  Cypris no more in dreams I see 
      When I am lying lone : 
  But Atthis loved of yore 
  Returns, and all my hungry, sore, 
Death-stricken senses close round her once more. 

  Of one, once loved, long dead, 
      My plectrum fain would speak ; 
  But a vague chorus haunts my head, 
      Confused, I yearn and seek. 
  O lyre, what is thy theme ? 
  At nightfall I have heard a team 
Of swans so deathward chaunting breast the stream. 

  They feel in their deep-feathered wings 
     Tremblings to soar and dive ; 
  For all the faintness that death brings 
     They are so much alive, 
  Borne by a mighty gale 
  Of verse, triumphantly they sail 
The great choir-master of their race to hail. 

  I must dare all, yea, I can grope 
      Through Hades in desire 
  To hear thee on thy mountain-slope, 
       My King, draw from thy lyre 
  My bosom's stricken cry : 
  Conjure, tempt, hearten me to die— 
Apollo, give me the great hours gone by!