Wet lies upon his neck the heavy tress of gold and the golden quiver
Reaches above his white shoulder, held by the belt of vermilion.
O fragrant kisses of a goddess among the dews!
O ambrosia of love in the world's youth-time!
Dost thou also love, O goddess? But ours is a wearied race;
Sad is thy face, O Aurora, when thou risest over our towers.
The dim street-lamps go out; and without even glancing at thee,
A pale-faced troop go home imagining they have been happy.
Angrily at his door is pounding the ill-tempered labourer,
Cursing the dawn that only calls him back to his bondage.