And, never much away, the nightingale.
Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,
Down to the verse that ends all, proverb like.
And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name"
And she answered: "I will recite the last play he wrote from first to last—Alkestis—his strangest, saddest, sweetest song."
Then because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts.
And poetry is power,—they all outbroke
In a great joyous laughter with much love:
"Thank Herakles for the good holiday!
Make for the harbour! Row, and let voice ring,