Ah! when the world is born again,
A little day is soon gone by,
When thou, unmoved by sun or rain,
Within a cold straight house shall lie.

Therewith they ceased awhile, as languidly
The head of Argo fell off toward the sea,
And through the water she began to go;
For from the land a fitful wind did blow,
That, dallying with the many-colored sail,
Would sometimes swell it out and sometimes fail,
As nigh the east side of the bay they drew;
Then o’er the waves again the music flew.

     The Sirens:
          Think not of pleasure short and vain,
          Wherewith, ’mid days of toil and pain,
          With sick and sinking hearts ye strive
          To cheat yourselves that ye may live
          With cold death ever close at hand. 
          Think rather of a peaceful land,
          The changeless land where ye may be
          Roofed over by the changeful sea.

     Orpheus:
          And is the fair town nothing then,
          The coming of the wandering men
          With that long talked-of thing and strange. 
          And news of how the kingdoms change,
          The pointed hands, and wondering
          At doers of a desperate thing? 
          Push on, for surely this shall be
          Across a narrow strip of sea.

     The Sirens:
          Alas! poor souls and timorous,
          Will ye draw nigh to gaze at us
          And see if we are fair indeed? 
          For such as we shall be your meed,
          There, where our hearts would have you go. 
          And where can the earth-dwellers show
          In any land such loveliness
          As that wherewith your eyes we bless,
          O wanderers of the Minyae,
          Worn toilers over land and sea?

     Orpheus:
          Fair as the lightning ’thwart the sky,
          As sun-dyed snow upon the high
          Untrodden heaps of threatening stone
          The eagle looks upon alone,
          Oh, fair as the doomed victim’s wreath,
          Oh, fair as deadly sleep and death,
          What will ye with them, earthly men,
          To mate your threescore years and ten? 
          Toil rather, suffer and be free,
          Betwixt the green earth and the sea.

     The Sirens:
          If ye be bold with us to go,
          Things such as happy dreams may show
          Shall your once heavy lids behold
          About our palaces of gold;
          Where waters ’neath the waters run,
          And from o’erhead a harmless sun
          Gleams through the woods of chrysolite. 
          There gardens fairer to the sight
          Than those of the Phaeacian king
          Shall ye behold; and, wondering,
          Gaze on the sea-born fruit and flowers,
          And thornless and unchanging bowers,
          Whereof the May-time knoweth naught.