COME back, ye wandering Muses, come back home, Ye seem to have forgotten where it lies: Come, let us walk upon the silent sands Of Simois, where deep foot-marks show long strides; Thence we may mount, perhaps, to higher ground, Where Aphrodite from Athene won The golden apple, and from Here too, And happy Ares shouted far below. Or would ye rather choose the grassy vale Where flow Anapos thro' anemones, Hyacinths, and narcissuses, that bend To show their rival beauty in the stream? Bring with you each her lyre, and each in turn Temper a graver with a lighter song. |