CHORICOS
The ancient songsPass deathward mournfully.Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—Symbols of ancient songsMournfully passingDown to the great white surges,Watched of noneSave the frail sea-birdsAnd the lithe pale girls,Daughters of Okeanus.And the songs passFrom the green landWhich lies upon the waves as a leafOn the flowers of hyacinth;And they pass from the waters,The manifold winds and the dim moon,And they come,Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,To the quiet level landsThat she keeps for us all,That she wrought for us all for sleepIn the silver days of the earth’s dawning—Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,And we turn from thee,Phoibos Apollon,And we turn from the music of oldAnd the hills that we loved and the meads,And we turn from the fiery day,And the lips that were over sweet;For silentlyBrushing the fields with red-shod feet,With purple robeSearing the flowers as with a sudden flame,Death,Thou hast come upon us.And of all the ancient songsPassing to the swallow-blue hallsBy the dark streams of Persephone,This only remains:That we turn to thee,Death,That we turn to thee, singingOne last song.O Death,Thou art an healing windThat blowest over white flowersA-tremble with dew;Thou art a wind flowingOver dark leagues of lonely sea;Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;Thou art the pale peace of oneSatiate with old desires;Thou art the silence of beauty,And we look no more for the morningWe yearn no more for the sun,Since with thy white hands,Death,Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets,The slim colourless poppiesWhich in thy garden aloneSoftly thou gatherest.And silently,And with slow feet approaching,And with bowed head and unlit eyes,We kneel before thee:And thou, leaning towards us,Caressingly layest upon usFlowers from thy thin cold hands,And, smiling as a chaste womanKnowing love in her heart,Thou sealest our eyesAnd the illimitable quietudeComes gently upon us.Richard Aldington
The ancient songsPass deathward mournfully.Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—Symbols of ancient songsMournfully passingDown to the great white surges,Watched of noneSave the frail sea-birdsAnd the lithe pale girls,Daughters of Okeanus.And the songs passFrom the green landWhich lies upon the waves as a leafOn the flowers of hyacinth;And they pass from the waters,The manifold winds and the dim moon,And they come,Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,To the quiet level landsThat she keeps for us all,That she wrought for us all for sleepIn the silver days of the earth’s dawning—Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,And we turn from thee,Phoibos Apollon,And we turn from the music of oldAnd the hills that we loved and the meads,And we turn from the fiery day,And the lips that were over sweet;For silentlyBrushing the fields with red-shod feet,With purple robeSearing the flowers as with a sudden flame,Death,Thou hast come upon us.And of all the ancient songsPassing to the swallow-blue hallsBy the dark streams of Persephone,This only remains:That we turn to thee,Death,That we turn to thee, singingOne last song.O Death,Thou art an healing windThat blowest over white flowersA-tremble with dew;Thou art a wind flowingOver dark leagues of lonely sea;Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;Thou art the pale peace of oneSatiate with old desires;Thou art the silence of beauty,And we look no more for the morningWe yearn no more for the sun,Since with thy white hands,Death,Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets,The slim colourless poppiesWhich in thy garden aloneSoftly thou gatherest.And silently,And with slow feet approaching,And with bowed head and unlit eyes,We kneel before thee:And thou, leaning towards us,Caressingly layest upon usFlowers from thy thin cold hands,And, smiling as a chaste womanKnowing love in her heart,Thou sealest our eyesAnd the illimitable quietudeComes gently upon us.Richard Aldington
The ancient songsPass deathward mournfully.
The ancient songs
Pass deathward mournfully.
Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—Symbols of ancient songsMournfully passingDown to the great white surges,Watched of noneSave the frail sea-birdsAnd the lithe pale girls,Daughters of Okeanus.
Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths,
Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings—
Symbols of ancient songs
Mournfully passing
Down to the great white surges,
Watched of none
Save the frail sea-birds
And the lithe pale girls,
Daughters of Okeanus.
And the songs passFrom the green landWhich lies upon the waves as a leafOn the flowers of hyacinth;And they pass from the waters,The manifold winds and the dim moon,And they come,Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,To the quiet level landsThat she keeps for us all,That she wrought for us all for sleepIn the silver days of the earth’s dawning—Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.
And the songs pass
From the green land
Which lies upon the waves as a leaf
On the flowers of hyacinth;
And they pass from the waters,
The manifold winds and the dim moon,
And they come,
Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk,
To the quiet level lands
That she keeps for us all,
That she wrought for us all for sleep
In the silver days of the earth’s dawning—
Proserpina, daughter of Zeus.
And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,And we turn from thee,Phoibos Apollon,And we turn from the music of oldAnd the hills that we loved and the meads,And we turn from the fiery day,And the lips that were over sweet;For silentlyBrushing the fields with red-shod feet,With purple robeSearing the flowers as with a sudden flame,Death,Thou hast come upon us.
And we turn from the Kuprian’s breasts,
And we turn from thee,
Phoibos Apollon,
And we turn from the music of old
And the hills that we loved and the meads,
And we turn from the fiery day,
And the lips that were over sweet;
For silently
Brushing the fields with red-shod feet,
With purple robe
Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame,
Death,
Thou hast come upon us.
And of all the ancient songsPassing to the swallow-blue hallsBy the dark streams of Persephone,This only remains:That we turn to thee,Death,That we turn to thee, singingOne last song.
And of all the ancient songs
Passing to the swallow-blue halls
By the dark streams of Persephone,
This only remains:
That we turn to thee,
Death,
That we turn to thee, singing
One last song.
O Death,Thou art an healing windThat blowest over white flowersA-tremble with dew;Thou art a wind flowingOver dark leagues of lonely sea;Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;Thou art the pale peace of oneSatiate with old desires;Thou art the silence of beauty,And we look no more for the morningWe yearn no more for the sun,Since with thy white hands,Death,Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets,The slim colourless poppiesWhich in thy garden aloneSoftly thou gatherest.
O Death,
Thou art an healing wind
That blowest over white flowers
A-tremble with dew;
Thou art a wind flowing
Over dark leagues of lonely sea;
Thou art the dusk and the fragrance;
Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling;
Thou art the pale peace of one
Satiate with old desires;
Thou art the silence of beauty,
And we look no more for the morning
We yearn no more for the sun,
Since with thy white hands,
Death,
Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets,
The slim colourless poppies
Which in thy garden alone
Softly thou gatherest.
And silently,And with slow feet approaching,And with bowed head and unlit eyes,We kneel before thee:And thou, leaning towards us,Caressingly layest upon usFlowers from thy thin cold hands,And, smiling as a chaste womanKnowing love in her heart,Thou sealest our eyesAnd the illimitable quietudeComes gently upon us.
And silently,
And with slow feet approaching,
And with bowed head and unlit eyes,
We kneel before thee:
And thou, leaning towards us,
Caressingly layest upon us
Flowers from thy thin cold hands,
And, smiling as a chaste woman
Knowing love in her heart,
Thou sealest our eyes
And the illimitable quietude
Comes gently upon us.
Richard Aldington
Richard Aldington