But open wide the Gate of Horn,
Whence, beautiful as planets, rise
The dreams of truth, with starry eyes,
And all the wondrous prophecies
And visions of the morn.

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE IVORY GATE. 
   Ye sentinels of sleep,
   It is in vain ye keep
Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate;
   Though closed the portal seems,
   The airy feet of dreams
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate.

   We phantoms are and dreams
   Born by Tartarean streams,
As ministers of the infernal powers;
   O son of Erebus
   And Night, behold! we thus
Elude your watchful warders on the towers!

   From gloomy Tartarus
   The Fates have summoned us
To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep,
   A tale to fan the fire
   Of her insane desire
To know a secret that the Gods would keep.

   This passion, in their ire,
   The Gods themselves inspire,
To vex mankind with evils manifold,
   So that disease and pain
   O’er the whole earth may reign,
And nevermore return the Age of Gold.

PANDORA (waking). 
A voice said in my sleep:  “Do not delay: 
Do not delay; the golden moments fly! 
The oracle hath forbidden; yet not thee
Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only!”
I am alone.  These faces in the mirrors
Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself;
They cannot help nor hinder.  No one sees me,
Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good
And knowing evil, have created me
Such as I am, and filled me with desire
Of knowing good and evil like themselves.

(She approaches the chest.)

I hesitate no longer.  Weal or woe,
Or life or death, the moment shall decide.

(She lifts the lid.  A dense mist rises from the chest, and fills the room.  PANDORA falls senseless on the floor.  Storm without.)

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE OF HORN. 
Yes, the moment shall decide! 
It already hath decided;
And the secret once confided
To the keeping of the Titan
Now is flying far and wide,
Whispered, told on every side,
To disquiet and to frighten.

Fever of the heart and brain,
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain,
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter,
All the evils that hereafter
Shall afflict and vex mankind,
All into the air have risen
From the chambers of their prison;
Only Hope remains behind.

VIII

IN THE GARDEN

EPIMETHEUS. 
The storm is past, but it hath left behind it
Ruin and desolation.  All the walks
Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are silent;
The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead;
The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain,
The melancholy reeds whisper together
As if some dreadful deed had been committed
They dare not name, and all the air is heavy
With an unspoken sorrow!  Premonitions,
Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster
Oppress my heart.  Ye Gods, avert the omen!