SALUTE TO THE SUN'S ENTRY INTO ARIES

Now at the doorway of the coming year,

Ye nymphs do gather and the garlands twine

That heroes' sons will bear

Fifty years hence in their remembering hands

And of their fathers speak with shining eyes

And of the war that stained the lands.

Weave ye the garlands, for the fame will pass,

And their grandchildren of grandchildren will

No more remember, neither care

Who their ancestor was

Who did that old crown, now scarce a crown, bear

For all must pass, that Time may have his fill.

Weave ye the garlands therefore, for this hour

Will not survive beyond the memory

Of those yet near to it who have the power

The hour somewhat like what it was to see.

Weave ye the garlands, weave

That their memory may live

Awhile, and if that mean that fame is nought,

Weave still the garlands with a gentle thought,

For weaving them, know ye

What to Time's elder shades you yet may give.

The days are heavy with the blood of men,

The year reels like a shattered wall

When the wind comes out of the caves of night.

Our minds are equal with the shaking...

We know not on what power to call

Or which side of the Truth lies right.

Alas! alas! all sides are right in war,

And that impartial vision born of peace,

And that the Gods alone can have,

Lives only in our wish that dim wars mar,

Breathes only in the halls of our release

From all the human things for which we crave.

But these are thoughts, and life is grief and fear.

Weave ye the garlands, lest the coming year

Forget, like ye, the fallen to remember

And the victors to greet.

Weave ye the garlands made

Of some strange flower that lasts unto December

And lay them at Fate's unseen feet.

Ay, for not for the heroes nor the slain

Weave ye the garlands woven with your pain.

Not for the fallen do your cheeks awhile

Flush then grow pale and your proud pain smile.

Not for a man nor for a nation do

Your garlands outreach Time

Perhaps and in eternal regions chime

With the sense of their fame who were e'er true.

For Fate alone all garlands woven are.

Unto Fate's feet the rivers of our tears

Perennial run, nor is there aught more far

Alas! than mere Fate that outwits the sun,

And that in circles round its empty name

Carries the vain course of our sterile fame

And great men as great nations equal lead

Vainly around the frame

Of nothing, like a wind along a mead.

Yet, whether for some man or for no man,

Whether for personal hopes or Fate no one,

Your garlands weave, lest the year come und span

With days fame‑empty the task e'er begun.

Weave garlands, green glad garlands, garlands sad,

Garlands of all sorts, if they glory mean,

Carry your woven garlands to their grave...

The rest is something that cannot be had -

The void as of a ship sunk nor more seen

Beneath the wave.