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Alcaeus sat on his leather stool, his dog at his feet, sunlight behind him; elbows on his knees, he said:
“...I prefer that hymn. There’s really no finer. In spite of time it’s full of force, spring’s arrival, the brevity of summer, the dying year. It has the shepherd’s power, the forest’s—passion tamed and sanctified. Another one I like is...
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall...
Libus, sitting near Alcaeus, quoted his favorite, huddling in his robe, his face averted:
Alone, in sea-circled Delos, while round on beach and cove,
before the piping sea wind the dark blue storm waves drove...
“Why do you break off?” I asked.
He did not answer but said:
“They knew, those ancients, how to supplicate the lowliest...they preferred the virginal...snowy peaks...whispering groves...the hunting cry...”