Eidola

σκιἁς εἱδωλου Aeschylus
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY
All Rights Reserved

O ye! Fragile, tremulous Haunters of the deep glades, Whose fingers part the leaves Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’, Shall I see ye again?
Men have said unto me: These are but flying lights and shadows, Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields, The wind in the flame of birches in autumn, Wind shadowing the clear pools. But ye cried, laughing, down the wind: Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!
So here cometh unto me That cry from the rejoicing air: Men are but shadows! And prone about me I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut, Made solemn and holy by the night, In the dead light o’ the moon: Shadowy, swathed in their blankets, As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves, Egypt’s and Asia’s kings. While between them are the footsteps Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one To be a sword upon my thigh! And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur As between them pass The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
Shall I see ye again, O flying feet O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent, In a wet brake o’ blossom, Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness; Ere I am torn from the scabbard: (Lo, one To be a sword upon my thigh!) Knowing no longer that earth Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?

Love suffereth all things. And we, Out of the travail and pain of our striving, Bring unto thee the perfect prayer: For the heart of no man uttereth love, Suffering even for love’s sake.
For us no splendid apparel of pageantry, Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets Sounding exultantly. But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen, Decked them with suffering, Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness, Strong with the pride of love.
Yea, tho’ our praise of thee slayeth us, Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant, Dying, that these live: And the earth again be beautiful with orchards, Yellow with wheatfields, And the lips of others praise thee, tho’ our lips Be stopped with earth, and songless.