Of all the ages’ gain, the ages’ loss,
A wealth of wonders and so much away—
When now hears one the woodland elves at play,
Or angry dryads where tall tree-tops toss.
No more they lightly tread the dewy moss
As danced they through cool haunts in ecstasy;
But rank and lost the paths in lone decay
Where fairy footsteps once were wont to cross.
O, happy Greeks, who knew the gods so well,
To you I burn my sacrificial fire!
Again reveal the mystic hidden rune
Whereby to find the slopes of asphodel—
Ah, then to hear Apollo charm his lyre
And see Diana ’neath the sickle moon.