spears,
  But for the end, that lies unreached at yet
  Between the hands and on the knees of gods,
  O fair-faced sun killing the stars and dews
  And dreams and desolation of the night! 
  Rise up, shine, stretch thine hand out, with thy bow
  Touch the most dimmest height of trembling heaven,
  And burn and break the dark about thy ways,
  Shot through and through with arrows; let thine hair
  Lighten as flame above that nameless shell
  Which was the moon, and thine eyes fill the world
  And thy lips kindle with swift beams; let earth
  Laugh, and the long sea fiery from thy feet
  Through all the roar and ripple of streaming springs
  And foam in reddening flakes and flying flowers
  Shaken from hands and blown from lips of nymphs
  Whose hair or breast divides the wandering wave
  With salt close tresses cleaving lock to lock,
  All gold, or shuddering and unfurrowed snow;
  And all the winds about thee with their wings,
  And fountain-heads of all the watered world;
  Each horn of Acheloues, and the green
  Euenus, wedded with the straitening sea. 
  For in fair time thou comest; come also thou,
  Twin-born with him, and virgin, Artemis,
  And give our spears their spoil, the wild boar’s hide. 
  Sent in thine anger against us for sin done
  And bloodless altars without wine or fire. 
  Him now consume thou; for thy sacrifice
  With sanguine-shining steam divides the dawn,
  And one, the maiden rose of all thy maids,
  Arcadian Atalanta, snowy-souled,
  Fair as the snow and footed as the wind,
  From Ladon and well-wooded Maenalus
  Over the firm hills and the fleeting sea
  Hast thou drawn hither, and many an armed king,
  Heroes, the crown of men, like gods in fight. 
  Moreover out of all the Aetolian land,
  From the full-flowered Lelantian pasturage
  To what of fruitful field the son of Zeus
  Won from the roaring river and labouring sea
  When the wild god shrank in his horn and fled
  And foamed and lessened through his wrathful fords,
  Leaving clear lands that steamed with sudden sun,
  These virgins with the lightening of the day
  Bring thee fresh wreaths and their own sweeter hair,
  Luxurious locks and flower-like mixed with flowers,
  Clean offering, and chaste hymns; but me the time
  Divides from these things; whom do thou not less
  Help and give honour, and to mine hounds good speed,
  And edge to spears, and luck to each man’s hand.

  Chorus.

  When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,
    The mother of months in meadow or plain
  Fills the shadows and windy places
    With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;
  And the brown bright nightingale amorous
  Is half assuaged for Itylus,
  For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
    The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.