Ah me! No wind from golden Thessaly
Blows in on me as in the olden days;
No morning music from its dew-sweet ways,
No pipings, such as came so clear to me
Out of green meadows by the sparkling sea;
No goddess any more, no Dryad strays,
And glorifies with song the laurel maze;
Or else I hear not and I cannot see.

For out of weary hands is fallen the lyre,
And sobs in falling; all the purple glow
From weary eyes is faded, which before
Saw bright Apollo and the blissful choir
In every mountain grove. Nor can I know
If I shall surely see them any more.