Orpheus.
Is not the May-time now on earth, When close against the city wall The folk are singing in their mirth, While on their heads the May-flowers fall?
The Sirens.
Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death, Shall ye be satiate of the May.
Orpheus.
Shall not July bring fresh delight, As underneath green trees ye sit, And o'er some damsel's body white The noontide shadows change and flit?
The Sirens.
No new delight July shall bring But ancient fear and fresh desire, And, spite of every lovely thing, Of July surely shall ye tire.
Orpheus.
And now, when August comes on thee, And 'mid the golden sea of corn The merry reapers thou mayst see, Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?