Proem. The Reed-Flute.
From reed-flute[55] hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:
“From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men’s, women’s, eyes have wept right sore.
My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain.
Who’s from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.
I sob and sigh in each retreat,