To which of the deathless
Should the prize be given?
I quarrel with none,
But I bestow it
On that ever-moving,
Ceaselessly fresh,
Strangest daughter of Jove,
His lap-child,
Fantasy.
For unto her
He has granted
All changes of mood
That otherwise he reserves
To himself alone,
And his pleasure is
In the mad one.
Oft she steps
Garlanded with roses
And the tall-stemmed lily
Into the flower vales,
And tells the summer birds
To suck with their bee lips
The nourishing dew
From the blossoms;
Oft does she
With flying hair
Rush with the wind
About the crags
And thousand-tinted
As dawn and eve,
Changing eternally,
As seems the moon,
Reveal herself to mortals.
May all of us
Praise the Father,
The old one on high,
Who a wife so lovely
And so unfading
Has joined to our
Mortal humanity!
For to us alone
Has he bound her
With the bonds of heaven,
And bade her
Whether in joy or grief
As a true wife
Never to waver.
All the other
Unluckier breeds
Of the living Earth
So rich in progeny
Wander and graze
In the dim pleasure
And somber pain
And shrunken existence
Bent under the yoke
Of harsh necessity.
But he has granted us
That we might meet—Rejoice!—
The ablest and most cherished
Of all his daughters,
In close embrace
As we meet the beloved!
Allow her the dignity
Of a wife in her own house!
And that the old
Mother, Wisdom,
Offer no insult
To her delicate soul!
Yet I know her sister too,
The elder, the less unruly one,
My quiet friend:
O that only
With the light of life itself
Should she turn away from me:
The noble inspirer,
Comforter, Hope!
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