Sole in the meadows of Thebes Tiresias² sat by the Dirce,

Blind Tiresias³ lonely and old. The song of the river

Moaned in his ears and the scent of the flowers afflicted his spirit

Wandering naked and chill in the winds of the world and its greyness.

Silent awhile, then he smote on the ground with the stay of his blindness,

Calling “O murmuring waters of Dirce, loved by my childhood,

Waters of murmuring Dirce, flowers that were dear to the lover,

Then was your perfume a sweetness, then were your voices a carol;

Now you are dark to me, scents that hurt; you are dirges, O waters.

We are weary of sorrow,

Sated with salt of human tears; and the thronèd oppressor

Seems not divine to our eyes, but a worm that stings and is happy –

Groans of the sad oppressed have no tone for our ears any longer.

Death we have taken in horror, the anguish of others afflicts us

And with the pangs of an alien heart are we⁴ shaken and troubled.

Lo, I am born⁵ by a woman’s sobs that come up in the midnight.