Notes poured thick and fast through the thin-beaten bronze and the reeds upspringing
By the burg of the Graces, the city of fair dance-lawns in the close
Of the Nymph of Kephisus, true witnesses they of the dance soft-swinging.
If bliss among mortals there be, ’tis not won but with travail-throes.
Yet a God may accomplish it even to-day—but there is no fleeing
That which of Fate is foredoomed: but surely a time shall be
When a Power that smites with a stroke all-sudden, past man’s foreseeing,
Shall grant thee a boon unhoped for, yet hold back another from thee.