Nigh the vine-covered hillocks green, In days agone, have I not seen The brown-clad maidens amorous, Below the long rose-trellised house, Dance to the querulous pipe and shrill, When the grey shadow of the hill Was lengthening at the end of day? Not shadowy nor pale were they, But limbed like those who 'twixt the trees, Follow the swift of Goddesses. Sunburnt they are somewhat, indeed, To where the rough brown woollen weed Is drawn across their bosoms sweet, Or cast from off their dancing feet; But yet the stars, the moonlight grey, The water wan, the dawn of day, Can see their bodies fair and white As Hers, who once, for man's delight, Before the world grew hard and old, Came o'er the bitter sea and cold; And surely those that met me there, Her handmaidens and subjects were; And shame-faced, half-repressed desire Had lit their glorious eyes with fire, That maddens eager hearts of men. O would that I were with them when The new-risen moon is gathering light, And yellow from the homestead white The windows gleam; but verily This waits us o'er a little sea. THE SIRENS. Come to the land where none grows old, And none is rash or over-bold, Nor any noise there is nor war, Nor rumour from wild lands afar, Nor plagues, nor birth and death of kings; No vain desire of unknown things Shall vex you there, no hope or fear Of that which never draweth near; But in that lovely land and still Ye may remember what ye will, And what ye will, forget for aye. So while the kingdoms pass away, Ye sea-beat hardened toilers erst, Unresting, for vain fame athirst, Shall be at peace for evermore, With hearts fulfilled of Godlike lore, And calm, unwavering Godlike love, No lapse of time can turn or move. There, ages after your fair Fleece Is clean forgotten, yea, and Greece Is no more counted glorious, Alone with us, alone with us, Alone with us, dwell happily, Beneath our trembling roof of sea. ORPHEUS. Ah! do ye weary of the strife And long to change this eager life For shadowy and dull hopelessness, Thinking indeed to gain no less Than far from this grey light to lie, And there to die and not to die, To be as if ye ne'er had been, Yet keep your memory fresh and green, To have no thought of good or ill, Yet feed your fill or pleasure still? O idle dream! Ah, verily If it shall happen unto me That I have thought of anything, When o'er my bones the sea-fowl sing, And I lie dead, how shall I pine For those fresh joys that once were mine, On this green fount of joy and mirth, The ever young and glorious earth; Then, helpless, shall I call to mind Thoughts of the sweet flower-scented wind, The dew, the gentle rain at night, The wonder-working snow and white. The song of birds, the water's fall, The sun that maketh bliss of all; Yea, this our toil and victory, The tyrannous and conquered sea.