But you, godlike one, you, resounding with song to the very last,
When seized by the swarm of the despised maenads,
Drowned out their shrieking with Order, yes
Beauteous one, - from the very midst of the ravagers arose the edification of your playing.
There were none then who could destroy either your head or your lyre,
Even as those furious ones raved and tore;
And all the sharp stones which they threw at your heart
Turned to softness upon your breast and, behold, were blessed with Hearing.
Finally they destroyed you, hunted down out of vengeance,
While your timbre abides in lions and cliffs
And in trees and birds. In these you sing still.
Oh you lost god! You unending trail!
Only because hatred at last tore asunder and dispersed you
Are we now the hearers and a mouth to Nature.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet