I do not think with my two arms to touch the sky, I do not dream to do almighty things; So small a singing bird may never soar so high, To beat the sapphire fire with baffled wings. I do not think with my two arms to touch the sky, I do not dream by any chance to share With deathless Gods the bliss of Paphos they deny To men behind the azure veil of air. HERO, OF GYARA I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner; Swifter far was she than Atalanta, When through clinging fleece of her wind-rippled Garments blushed the glimmer of her limbs. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner; Lovelier was she than Atalanta, When the straining vision of the suitor Saw her beauty mock impending death. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner, All the singing numbers of Terpander, Metres of Archilochus and Alcman, And my melic verse that glows supreme. I taught Hero, of Gyara, the swift runner, Sapphics with their triple surge of music Melting in the final verse Adonic, Like the foam fall of a spended wave. COURAGE Faint not in thy strong heart! Nor downcast stand apart; Beyond the reach of daring will there lies No beauty's prize. Faint not in thy strong heart! Through temple, field and mart, Courage alone the guerdon from the fray May bear away. THE BOAST OF ARES Ares said he would drag Hephestus by force From Poseidon's palace Deep down in the sea; Where he had fashioned The cunning throne With the secret chains. He presented the throne, Forsooth, as a gift To the queen of heaven; But Hera soon found For revenge on her Who had him cast From the home of Gods. For secure in its clasp Of adamant gold She was held imprisoned, The prey of his guile; And Hephestus knew By him alone Could the queen be freed. But the great God of war Made boast of his strength; He would bring the forger Of metals and tricks On high to release Hera, and end Her enraged despair. Ares said he would drag Hephestus by force, But was made to waver And flee when assailed With a blazing brand By the dark God Of the underworld. GOLD Gold is the son of Zeus, Immortal, bright; Nor moth nor worm may eat it, Nor rust tarnish. So are the Muse's gifts The offspring fair, That merit from high heaven Youth eternal. GNOMICS I My ways are quiet, none may find My temper of malignant kind; For one should check the words that start When anger spreads within the heart. II