Hast thou not heard the prayer,
When the blood stood still with loving,
And the blood in me leapt like wine,
And I cried on thy name, Melaenis?—
That heard me, (the glory is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!
“Falsely they tell of thy dying,
Thou that art older than Death,
And never the Hörselberg hid thee,