O flower of Tegea, maiden, fleetest foot And holiest head of women, have good cheer Of thy good words: but ye, depart with her In peace and reverence, each with blameless eye Following his fate; exalt your hands and hearts, Strike, cease not, arrow on arrow and wound on wound, And go with gods and with the gods return.
Who hath given man speech? or who hath set therein A thorn for peril and a snare for sin? For in the word his life is and his breath, And in the word his death, That madness and the infatuate heart may breed From the word's womb the deed And life bring one thing forth ere all pass by, Even one thing which is ours yet cannot die-- Death. Hast thou seen him ever anywhere, Time's twin-born brother, imperishable as he Is perishable and plaintive, clothed with care And mutable as sand, But death is strong and full of blood and fair And perdurable and like a lord of land? Nay, time thou seest not, death thou wilt not see Till life's right hand be loosened from thine hand And thy life-days from thee. For the gods very subtly fashion Madness with sadness upon earth: Not knowing in any wise compassion, Nor holding pity of any worth; And many things they have given and taken, And wrought and ruined many things; The firm land have they loosed and shaken, And sealed the sea with all her springs; They have wearied time with heavy burdens And vexed the lips of life with breath: Set men to labour and given them guerdons, Death, and great darkness after death: Put moans into the bridal measure And on the bridal wools a stain, And circled pain about with pleasure, And girdled pleasure about with pain; And strewed one marriage-bed with tears and fire For extreme loathing and supreme desire.
What shall be done with all these tears of ours? Shall they make watersprings in the fair heaven To bathe the brows of morning? or like flowers Be shed and shine before the starriest hours, Or made the raiment of the weeping Seven? Or rather, O our masters, shall they be Food for the famine of the grievous sea, A great well-head of lamentation Satiating the sad gods? or fall and flow Among the years and seasons to and fro, And wash their feet with tribulation And fill them full with grieving ere they go? Alas, our lords, and yet alas again, Seeing all your iron heaven is gilt as gold But all we smite thereat in vain, Smite the gates barred with groanings manifold, But all the floors are paven with our pain. Yea, and with weariness of lips and eyes, With breaking of the bosom, and with sighs, We labour, and are clad and fed with grief And filled with days we would not fain behold And nights we would not hear of, we wax old, All we wax old and wither like a leaf. We are outcast, strayed between bright sun and moon; Our light and darkness are as leaves of flowers, Black flowers and white, that perish; and the noon-- As midnight, and the night as daylight hours. A little fruit a little while is ours, And the worm finds it soon.