O MY poor son, O Anticles, and poor me, who beheld The body I bare, the only one, amid the leaping fires! But eighteen years, life at the full! and now in lonely eld I sit and think on good things gone and empty old desires. Would I might go to Hades' house, where all is dark and still! No joy have I of dawn, no joy to see the travelling sun. O Anticles, my poor, poor bairn, thy weird was woven for ill; Come quickly and take me out of life: let this long day be done! |