I BEAR me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus. I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower, buds of myrrh, all-healing herbs, close pressed in calathes. For she lies panting, drawing sharp breaths broken with harsh sobs, she, Hyella, whom no god pities. II Dryads haunting the groves, nereids who dwell in wet caves, for all the white leaves of olive-branch, and early roses, and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries, which she once brought to your altars, bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia, and Assyrian wine to shatter her fever. The light of her face falls from its flower, as a hyacinth, hidden in a far valley, perishes upon burnt grass. Pales, bring gifts, bring your Phoenician stuffs, and do you, fleet-footed nymphs, bring offerings, Illyrian iris, and a branch of shrub, and frail-headed poppies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAREWELL TO MALTA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE LOST SHEEP by SARAH PRATT MCCLAIN GREENE LOVERS HOW THEY COME AND PART by ROBERT HERRICK THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR by RUDYARD KIPLING A DUTCH PROVERB by MATTHEW PRIOR |