But now, but now, when ye have lain
Asleep with us a little while
Beneath the washing of the main,
How calm shall be your waking smile!

For ye shall smile to think of life
That knows no troublous change or fear,
No unavailing bitter strife,
That ere its time brings trouble near.

Orpheus: 
Is there some murmur in your ears,
That all that we have done is naught,
And nothing ends our cares and fears,
Till the last fear on us is brought?

The Sirens: 
Alas! and will ye stop your ears,
In vain desire to do aught,
And wish to live ’mid cares and fears,
Until the last fear makes you naught?

Orpheus: 
Is not the May-time now on earth,
When close against the city wall
The folk are singing in their mirth,
While on their heads the May flowers fall?

The Sirens: 
Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath
Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day,
And pensive with swift-coming death
Shall ye be satiate of the May.

Orpheus: 
Shall not July bring fresh delight,
As underneath green trees ye sit,
And o’er some damsel’s body white,
The noon-tide shadows change and flit?

The Sirens: 
No new delight July shall bring,
But ancient fear and fresh desire;
And spite of every lovely thing,
Of July surely shall ye tire.

Orpheus: 
And now when August comes on thee,
And ’mid the golden sea of corn
The merry reapers thou mayst see,
Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?

The Sirens:
Set flowers on thy short-lived head,
And in thine heart forgetfulness
Of man’s hard toil, and scanty bread,
And weary of those days no less.

Orpheus:
Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill,
In the October afternoon,
To watch the purple earth’s blood fill
The gray vat to the maiden’s tune?

The Sirens: 
When thou beginnest to grow old,
Bring back remembrance of thy bliss
With that the shining cup doth hold,
And weary helplessly of this.

Orpheus:
Or pleasureless shall we pass by
The long cold night and leaden day,
That song and tale and minstrelsy
Shall make as merry as the May?

The Sirens:
List then, to-night, to some old tale
Until the tears o’erflow thine eyes;
But what shall all these things avail,
When sad to-morrow comes and dies?

Orpheus:
And when the world is born again,
And with some fair love, side by side,
Thou wanderest ’twixt the sun and rain,
In that fresh love-begetting tide;

Then, when the world is born again,
And the sweet year before thee lies,
Shall thy heart think of coming pain,
Or vex itself with memories?

The Sirens:
Ah! then the world is born again
With burning love unsatisfied,
And new desires fond and vain,
And weary days from tide to tide.