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from off the hard earth, and struck full against
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your face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly pale
the God's face went — as pallid as the boy's.
With care he lifted the sad huddled form.
The kind god tries to warm you back to life,
and next endeavors to attend your wound,
and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.
His skill is no advantage, for the wound
is past all art of cure. As if someone,
when in a garden, breaks off violets,
poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,
then drooping they must hang their withered heads,
and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,
the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck,
a burden to itself, falls back upon
his shoulder: “You are fallen in your prime
defrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!”
Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad wound
my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief
and self-reproach. My own hand gave you death
unmerited — I only can be charged
with your destruction.—What have I done wrong?
Can it be called a fault to play with you?
Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,
that I might now give up my life for you!
Or die with you! But since our destinies
prevent us you shall always be with me,
and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.
The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs
will always celebrate you. A new flower
you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans:
and there shall come another to be linked
with this new flower, a valiant hero shall
be known by the same marks upon its petals.”
And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these words
with his truth-telling lips, behold the blood
of Hyacinthus, which had poured out on
the ground beside him and there stained the grass,
was changed from blood; and in its place a flower,
