But since the longed-for day is nigh, And scarce a god could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, And still go slower and more slow? _The Sirens_: Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home Your fond desires were set upon, Into what troubles had ye come! What barren victory had ye won! But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main, How calm shall be your waking smile! For ye shall smile to think of life That knows no troublous change or fear, No unavailing bitter strife, That ere its time brings trouble near. _Orpheus_: Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is naught, And nothing ends our cares and fears, Till the last fear on us is brought? _The Sirens_: Alas! and will ye stop your ears, In vain desire to do aught, And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, Until the last fear makes you naught? _Orpheus_: Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May flowers fall? _The Sirens_: Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death Shall ye be satiate of the May. _Orpheus_: Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white, The noon-tide shadows change and flit? _The Sirens_: No new delight July shall bring, But ancient fear and fresh desire; And spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire. _Orpheus_: And now when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn? _The Sirens:_ Set flowers on thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less. _Orpheus:_ Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The gray vat to the maiden's tune? _The Sirens_: When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this. _Orpheus:_ Or pleasureless shall we pass by The long cold night and leaden day, That song and tale and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?