I. THE Sirens once were maidens² innocent That through the water-meads with Proserpine Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine³, With lilies woven and with wet woodbine； Till once they sought the bright AEtnaean flowers, And their bright mistress fled from summer hours With Hades, down the irremeable decline. And they have sought her all the wide world through Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, And whoso hears must listen till he die Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.

    II. So is it with this singing art of ours, That once with maids went maidenlike, and played With woven dances in the poplar-shade, And all her song was but of lady's bowers⁴ And the returning swallows, and spring-flowers, Till forth⁵ to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, A shadowy land； and now hath overweighed Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. Yea, fair well-water for the bitter brine She left, and by the margin⁶ of life's sea Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan, And wild with dread⁷, and love of Proserpine； And whoso once has listened to her, he His whole life long is slave to her alone.