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.