Eh! Be this 'yoke lute' regarded with dread,
what thankings unto Hermes give; whence
polydactyl his art of touch over me sway?
Faeo, all be it, but a man be; whose hand
bird-weightedly sways. Heavy still, his fists
expel. Tis one confession [but] of the nerves.
What interprets one hereupon, unto you, Jonah,
by whose day, years count and the way round?
Heard, distance makes heroes; absence, gods?
Nobiliary! Are you made upon your ground yet?
Whose plectrum strums Apollo than Orpheus,
unto human tongues, had? Any other, godlier?
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Foremost amongst the gods, O Faeo!
Thou art godly and strong.
In good and well-ordered utterances, thou art skilled
As it pleases thy heart to play thy Lyre,
Chant and upon it play, great Noble,
And unto thy soul give merriment.