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            Ite hillc, Camenae, vos quoque ite jam, sane

Dulces Camenae, nam fatebimur verum
Dulces fuistis, et tamen meas chartas
Revisitote sed pudenter et raro.

Pale poems, weak and few, who vainly use
Your wings towards the unattainable spheres,

Offspring of the divine Hellenic Muse,

Poor maimèd children born of six disastrous years!

Not as your mother’s is your wounded grace,

Since not to me with equal love returned

The hope which drew me to that serene face

Wherein no unreposeful light of effort burned.

Depart and live for seasons many or few
If live you may, but stay not here to pain
My heart with hopeless passion and renew

Visions of beauty that my lips shall ne’er attain.

For in Sicilian olive-groves no more
Or seldom must my footprints now be seen,
Nor tread Athenian lanes, nor yet explore.
Parnassus or thy voiceful shores, O Hippocrene.

Me from her lotus heaven Saraswati
Has called to regions of eternal snow
And Ganges pacing to the southern sea,

Ganges upon whose shores the flowers of Eden blow.         
 

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