I
The satyrs pursue in the woods
The light-footed oreads.
They chase the nymphs upon the mountains,
They fill their eyes with affright,
They seize their hair in the wind,
They grasp their breasts in the chase,
And throw their warm bodies backwards
Upon the green dew-covered moss,
And the beautiful bodies, their beautiful bodies half divine,
Writhe with the agony . . .
O women! Eros makes your lips cry aloud
With dolorous, sweet Desire.
The flute-players repeated
“Eros
Eros!”
and wailed in their twin reeds.