Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the day Appointed of Apollo. Near Sangarius And through the woodlands tireless with the flute: Sometimes in imitative harmony Mocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and now The musical winds that blow in early spring Around a peak of dancing asphodel Where the sea warms them, and at other times The little waves that patter on the sands Of old Sangarius rich in numerous flags. And once he strove with music’s alchemy To turn to sound the sunlight of the morn Which fills the senses as illuminate dew Quickens the ovule of the tiger-flower. Again he sang the sorrow of his youth When a wild nymph after one day of bliss Fled him while sleeping. And again he beat The rhythm lying at the root of life Which marks the whirling planets. And Apollo Hearing betimes a note of purest tone Fall like a star, betrayed his wonderment-- Whereat the muses vexed him with their smiles And whisperings to each other. But Apollo Could sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulled With its employment, as Athena’s soul Died from the flute, although the Satyr knew not Each day of waiting doomed him: Then at last The day dawned for the trial of their skill, And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute-- For all had left it of Athena’s soul. Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the muses To judge assembled, fair, majestical. With arms entwined some close together stood, Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass, But all bore in their eyes the light of mirth Suppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that Euterpe Was mistress of the flute, since it was deemed Fair to the Satyr that the contest be Judged by the flute, gave signal to begin. Whereat Apollo struck the cithara To test the strings, and all the wood was hushed, Awed by the magic of its harmony. But when Marsyas blew upon the flute A fear coursed through him as his wonder rose Whether Apollo had bewitched its soul To such discordance, or its utterance, Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’s Was so unmusical. Yet he dare not fail The contest, so they waged it to the end, While the sweet muses now grown pitiful No longer smiled, but turned their heads away In sorrow for Marsyas, for his shame And for the fate to follow.