THANATOS, thy praise I sing,
Thou immortal, youthful king !
Glorious offerings I will bring ;
For men say thou hast no shrine,
And I find thou art divine
As no other god : thy rage
Doth preserve the Golden Age,
What we blame is thy delay ;
Cut the flowers ere they decay !
Come, we would not derogate,
Age and nipping pains we hate.
Take us at our best estate :
While the head bums with the crown,
In the battle strike us down !
At the bride-feast do not think
From thy summons we should shrink ;
We would give our latest kiss
To a life still warm with bliss.
Come and take us to thy train
Of dead maidens on the plain
Where white lilies have no stain ;
Take us to the youths, that thou
Lov'st to choose, of fervid brow,
Unto whom thy dreaded name
Hath been simply known as Fame :
With these unpolluted things
Be our endless revellings.