No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired,The hand, the foot--their use in life is ended.
When thou dost move in the dance,Then each constellation moves also;With thee and round thee they move.
I will snare him,
Hastening, he, with breathless wonder,Sees the bodies of two womenLying crosswise, and their heads too;Oh, what horror! which to choose!Then his mother's head he seizes,--Does not kiss it, deadly pale 'tis,--On the nearest headless bodyPuts it quickly, and then blessesWith the sword the pious work.Then the giant form uprises,--From the dear lips of his mother,Lips all god-like--changeless--blissful,Sound these words with horror fraught:"Son, oh son! what overhast'ning!Yonder is thy mother's body,Near it lies the impious headOf the woman who hath fallenVictim to the judgment-sword!To her body I am graftedBy thy hand for endless ages;Wise in counsel, wild in action,I shall be amongst the gods.E'en the heav'nly boy's own image,Though in eye and brow so lovely,Sinking downwards to the bosomMad and raging lust will stir.
TOGETHER at the altar weIn vision oft were seen by thee,
Now am I far! And what would best befit
That fairest are,My sweetheart's sweetness