Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ION: APOLLO THE BETRAYER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: How can I keep silence, soul?
Last Line: Fruit of the loins of zeus.


HOW can I keep silence, soul?
And how betray that bed in the dark,
Stripping myself of shamefastness?

What can stop me and hold me back?
I seek no rival in innocence.
Has not my bridegroom betrayed me,
Who robbed me of home, robbed me of sons?

My hopes are gone, vain hopes I built
Guarding my honour: I who said
Nothing of wedlock,
Nothing of travail and all its tears.

No, -- by the starry throne of Zeus,
By the goddess who watches the rocks of my home,
By the majestical shore
Of Lake Tritonis' water,
I'll speak and tell with whom I lay,
I'll lock in my breast no more
That load, but feel at peace.

My eyes drop tears, my soul
Is sick with the foul conspiracies
Of mortal men and immortal gods;
Them shall I prove
Ungrateful traitors against my love.

O chanter of melody
On the seven strings of the lyre,
Melody echoing
From the dead strips of rustic horn
Your musical hymns and loud,
Shame on you, Lato's son,
Before the sunlight I shall cry.

You came to me, your hair
Burning with gold, when I
Was gathering yellow flowers
Into the folds of my bosom,
Gold cups of light for woven crowns:
You gripped me by my white wrists
And while I cried out 'Mother',

Dragged me to lie in a cave --
You, god, were my paramour,
Dragging me shamelessly,
Doing the Cyprian's will.

And I, poor maid,
Gave birth to a son,
And, fearful of my mother,
Flung him into that bed
Where you had forced me and wed me --
O cruelty! ... Poor maid,
Most cruelly wed!

Ay me, ay me,
And now he is gone,
Snatched by the birds for their feast,
My son ... and yours, O pitiless!
While you to the lyre's loud tones
Are chanting hymns of praise.

To you, son of Lato, to you
I raise my cry,
To you who give forth oracles
From a golden throne
Seated at earth's centre,
In your ear I shall cry aloud.

Ah, wicked ravisher,
Owing no debt to my husband
You settle a son in his house:
But my son ... and yours, O cruel-hearted,
Is gone, picked by the birds,
Robbed of the wrappings his mother gave him.

Delos hates you, the laurel hates you
Which grows by the palm-tree's delicate leaves,
Where Lato in holiness
Gave you birth,
Fruit of the loins of Zeus.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net