I, Philomel, spread out in the long grass
lying in the green pastures upon ancient hills
watch the sky dome flow over me like water.
My pipe lies idle in my out-flung hand;
my song has fled into the woods—
the birds sing it; the wind whispers it;
it is heavy in the drip of morning dew;
it streams through the colors of the sun's rising
but it breaks in the glory of the day's ending.
My verse blossomed in the new buds of spring,
and flourished in the summer woodlands' green,
danced with the sunset leaves of autumn,
and hid in the dry roots and branches
in winter under the bright silent snow.
Here outside of time, and in all times
I rest, feeling the press of hard ground amid
the meadow's conversation with the wind
whose light speech swirls the green fronds softly.
Sudden the nation's eagle whirls above me,
wing-feathers touched with sunlight
feeling the strength of the wind—the cold wind
lifting it high on powerful pinions—
and the last warmth of the day-dying sun