Now thou art gone the use of life is past, 5
The meaning and the glory and the pride,
There is no joyous friend to share the day,
And on the threshold no awaited shadow.
LXII
Play up, play up thy silver flute;
The crickets all are brave;
Glad is the red autumnal earth
And the blue sea.
Play up thy flawless silver flute; 5
Dead ripe are fruit and grain.
When love puts on his scarlet coat,
Put off thy care.
LXIII
A beautiful child is mine,
Formed like a golden flower,
Cleis the loved one.
And above her I value
Not all the Lydian land, 5
Nor lovely Hellas.
LXIV
Ah, but now henceforth
Only one meaning
Has life for me.
Only one purport,
Measure and beauty, 5
Has the bright world.
What mean the wood-winds,
Colour and morning,
Bird, stream, and hill?
And the brave city 10
With its enchantment?
Thee, only thee!
LXV
Softly the wind moves through the radiant morning,
And the warm sunlight sinks into the valley,
Filling the green earth with a quiet joyance,
Strength, and fulfilment.
Even so, gentle, strong and wise and happy, 5
Through the soul and substance of my being,
Comes the breath of thy great love to me-ward,
O thou dear mortal.
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