The Sirens.
Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, And in thine heart forgetfulness Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, And weary of those days no less.
Orpheus.
Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, In the October afternoon, To watch the purple earth's blood fill The grey vat to the maiden's tune?
The Sirens.
When thou beginnest to grow old, Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.
Orpheus.
Or pleasureless shall we pass by The long cold night and leaden day, That song, and tale, and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?
The Sirens.
List then, to-night, to some old tale Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes; But what shall all these things avail, When sad to-morrow comes and dies?