Against the winds my weary voice will fail,
No echo caught within the storm’s fierce eye
While endlessly the winds go lashing, wail
Their mindless movement across miles of sky.
The futile falling of the stricken bird —
Zeus makes no promise that it has its worth,
Poor tiny dove — is then my call unheard
Beyond the surge of sea and knife-sharp earth?
I call out from the mythic rock’s fierce sides
One moment ere I crash into the wave
Where only shock of sea and stone abides;
Is there naught precious for great Zeus to save?
Bear I no nectar of Olympian bliss?
Bear I no life that my bright mate might miss?