IN A STRANGE LAND.
By an unnamed river-anchorage have we raised a shrine to Apollo. If these strange winds cool the grass where he sleeps, we know not, nor if he will hear us. But round about grows the dark laurel, and here also the young oak fattens her acorns against the end of the wheat-harvest.
SPARROWS.
When I was a child I woke early, and the sparrows chirped to me from the cool eaves of the house. Since then each morning have I recalled their merry voices. But those little birds have long flown to nest about the white feet of Proserpine, where I who alone remember them shall follow them alone.
THE ROSE.
Above the ashes of me, Rhodora, they planted a rose, but it died. Pity me that I died also who was also a rose.
THE SALT WELL.
I am a well of brackish water springing from the unfruitful sand hard by the striving sea. Wherefor men have named me for Love, since all wayfarers must drink here, and drink again, lamenting the draught.
FRIENDSHIP.
When the black ships take thought of the sea and the winds are invoked, many are the dear gifts offered on the rocks to Priapus, and to thee, Leucothea of the clear hair; baskets of rye straw with ripe figs, and wine in curved sea shells. But to me Lysis gives a richer offering, even his grief and his farewell.
THE APPLE TREES.
I am an old man, but I have planted young apple trees along the dewy edge of my cattle field. Nymphs of the deep meadows, crowned with rue and fed on wild thyme honey, remember me when in years to come you rob me of my fruit.
THE SLEEPER.
Is there indeed a life after death? Then is sleep become a yet more precious thing. Wake me not.
A SHEPHERD.
Me when young, the mild-faded sheep followed. I fenced the folds, I sheltered the ewes, and at shearing time long strands of wool unwoven clung to my coat. Now by the fenceless sea I lay my bones and the foam blows over me, clinging to my bare tomb as white as wool. Yet am I far from the folds and the hill pastures of Thrace.
A POET.
That she will soon forget me, I know. Yet build my tomb high in the birch wood above the seaport road, so that the mariners who pass by singing my songs may pause, even if she bring me no myrtle. And plant strong saplings about it, and clean seeds, and cuttings from my rose garden, so that the birds may build there and the dry twigs blossom at the end of the winter. For I would not, O Cyprian, that the dove and the rose should forget me as soon as she.
A DEAF GIRL.
Here lies Chryseis, my bride. She was beautiful, but the gods of life denied her hearing. Nor have the gods of the dead been kinder. In proof whereof I come here daily and call her,Chryseis, Chryseis. Witness thou, O stranger, she hath not heard me.
