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VIII. LEAVING ATHENS.
ΟΛΙΓΟΝ ΤΕ ΦΙΛΟΝ ΤΕ.
No relic rare, O Attic soil, from thy fair shores returning,
No clay or marble disinterred I bear beyond the sea;
Too many such lament their home in stranger halls sojourning—
The remnants of thine ancient art, let these abide with thee.
No clay or marble disinterred I bear beyond the sea;
Too many such lament their home in stranger halls sojourning—
The remnants of thine ancient art, let these abide with thee.
One simple spoil thou wilt not grudge of all thy treasure-troven,
One gracious gift, beloved land, I take with conscience clear—
A handful of thy wild-flowers, by fairest fingers woven,
And a wreath of Attic olive-leaves, “a little thing but dear.”
One gracious gift, beloved land, I take with conscience clear—
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And a wreath of Attic olive-leaves, “a little thing but dear.”
Hymettus' golden honey-bees that haunt his thymy covers
Of all their joyous pasturage have no such joy as mine,
For o'er these petals dried and dead a subtler fragrance hovers,
And Memory can mix from these a honey more divine.
Of all their joyous pasturage have no such joy as mine,
For o'er these petals dried and dead a subtler fragrance hovers,
And Memory can mix from these a honey more divine.
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