The joyous song of sea and cliff. The gods are dead, And they are lying still In the forgotten isle of a forgotten sea. And He who slew them sits upon His throne.
He was but a youth. Spring had not yet given Him full beard, And His summer was still young in His field.
Take your harps and sing with me
The tempest in the forest That breaks the dry branch and the leafless twig, Yet sends the living root to nestle deeper at the breast of earth.
Take your harps and sing with me The deathless song of our Belovèd.
Nay, my maidens, stay your hands. Lay by your harps. We cannot sing Him now.
The faint whisper of our song cannot reach His tempest, Nor pierce the majesty of His silence.
Lay by your harps and gather close around me, I would repeat His words to you, And I would tell you of His deeds, For the echo of His voice is deeper than our passion.