Classic Poem

( FROM THE LATIN OF POLITIAN )

Who will grant to my head
Water? Or who for mine eyes
Will open a fountain of tears?
So that by night I may weep,
And may weep by day;
Like as the dove widow'd is wont,
Or the swan that dieth is wont,
Like as the nightingale;
Crying, Woe is for me!
Grief, ah, my grief!

Our Tree by the lightning shock
Lies cast suddenly down;
Our Tree full of renown,
Famed where the Muses are
And famed where the wood-nymphs lie!
O Tree, whose clusterful boughs
Lent peace to the songs of Apollo,
And sweeten'd the sweet of his voice: —
Mute are the voices, alas!
And alas! we are deaf that heard.

Who will grant to my head
Water? Or who for mine eyes
Will open a fountain of tears?
So that by night I may weep,
And may weep by day;
Like as the dove, widow'd, is wont,
Or the swan that dieth is wont,
Like as the nightingale: —
Crying, Woe is for me!
Grief, ah, my grief!