“And you, too, Hyacinthus, would have been
set high within the sky by Phoebus, if
your wretched fate had not forestalled his wish.
Yet, in your way, you are eternal now:
whenever spring has banished winter and
the rainy Fish gives way before the Ram,
it’s then you rise and flower once again
where earth is green. My father loved you more
than he loved any other; even Delphi,
set at the very center of the earth,
was left without its tutelary god;
for Phoebus went instead to visit you
in unwalled Sparta, on Eurotas’ banks,
neglecting both his lyre and his shafts.
Not heeding who he was—his higher tasks—
alongside you, the god did not refuse
to carry nets, to hold the dogs in leash;
he was your comrade on rough mountain peaks;
and lingering beside you, he could feed
his flame of love.
“And now the Titan sun
was at midpoint—between the night to come
and one that had already gone. And Phoebus
and Hyacinthus shed their clothes, anoint
their bodies; gleaming with smooth olive oil,
the two are set to see which one can cast
the discus farther. Phoebus is the first
to lift and poise the broad and heavy disc,
then fling it high; it bursts across the sky
Latin [159–79]
and rends the clouds along its path. Its flight
is long: at last, the hard earth feels its fall,
its weight—a throw that shows what can be done
when strength and skill are joined. The Spartan boy
is reckless: risking all for sport, he runs
to pick the discus up. But the hard ground
sends back the heavy bronze; as it rebounds,
it strikes you in the face, o Hyacinthus!
You and the god are pale: the god lifts up
your sagging form; he tries to warm you, tries
to staunch your cruel wound; and he applies
herbs that might stay your soul as it takes flight.
His arts are useless; nothing now can heal
that wound. As lilies, poppies, violets,
if loosened as they hang from yellow stems
in a well-watered garden, fade at once
and, with their withered heads grown heavy, bend;
they cannot stand erect; instead they must
gaze at the ground: just so your dying face
lies slack: too weak for its own weight, your neck
falls back upon your shoulder. ‘Sparta’s son,
you have been cheated,’ Phoebus cries; ‘you’ve lost
the flower of your youth; as I confront
your wound, I witness my own crime—my guilt,
my grief! It’s my right hand that has inscribed
your end: I am the author of your death.
And yet, what crime is mine? Can play, can sport
be blamed? Can having loved be called a fault?
If I could only pay for what I’ve done
by dying for or with you—you are one
so worthy! But the law of fate denies
that chance to me. Yet I shall always have
you, Hyacinthus, in my heart, just as
your name shall always be upon my lips.
The lyre my fingers pluck, the songs I chant,
shall celebrate you; and as a new flower,
you’ll bear, inscribed upon you, my lament.
And, too, in time to come, the bravest man
Latin [179–207]
shall be identified with you—Ajax’
own letters, on your petals, shall be stamped.’
“As he spoke these true words, the blood that had
been spilled upon the ground and stained the grass
is blood no more; instead—more brilliant than
the purple dye of Tyre—a flower sprang;
though lily-shaped, it was not silver-white;
this flower was purple. Then, not yet content,
Phoebus—for it was he who’d brought about
this wonder that would honor Hyacinthus—
inscribed upon the petals his lament:
with his own hand, he wrote these letters—AI,
AI—signs of sad outcry. And Sparta, too,
is not ashamed to have as its own son
a Hyacinthus; they still honor him
each year, just as their fathers always did:
the Hyacinthia, their festival,
begins with an august processional.