Quando fiam uti chelidon, ut tacere desinam?
Perdidi Musam tacendo, nec me Phoebus repicit.
Sic Amyclas, cum tacerent, redidit silentium.
Cras amet qui nunquam amaviet: quique amavit cras amet.
She sings, but we are silent: when shall Spring
Of mine come to me? I as the swallow make
Me vocal, and this desolate silence break?
The Muse has left me for I cannot sing;
Nor does Apollo now his splendour bring
To aid my vision, blinded for her sake -
Thus mute Amyclas would not silence wake
And perished in the shadow of its wing.
The wings of the imperishable Dove
Unfold for flight, and we shall ease from sorrow;
Song shall the beauty of dead Silence borrow
When lips once mute mow raise this chant above:
Love to the loveless shall be given tomorrow,
To-morrow for the lover shall be love.