Βροδοπαχεες αγναι Χαριτες, δεντε Λιος κοραι


Ye rosy-armed, pure Graces, come,

    Daughters of Zeus, be near!
Oh, wherefore have my lips been dumb
    So long in silence drear?

And why have I so cheerless been,
    So sorrowful and wild?
It was because ye were not seen,
    Because ye had not smiled.

Although his prayer the Muses bless,
    The poet doth require
That ye, in frolic gentleness,
    Should stand beside his lyre.

Ne’er will he mortal ear delight,
     Nor care-vex’d spirit ease;
Except he sing with ye in sight,
    Rose-flushed among the trees.

More Poems by Michael Field