Chapter V

Why dost thou linger, thou the miracle
Among all marvels? Hither call the birds;
The faint, far song of rivers; silver bell
And pause of twilight, when the crooning words
Of mothers bending over babes awake
Echoes of whispers through the reeds and grass:
Let these and other voices vie with thine,
And lo! the god who vanquished Marsyas
Yields thee his harp, and one by one forsake
The nymphs their singing for thy voice divine.