Must you walk up on so high,
Hyperion, fatherly titan? Up
There, in wuthering heights,
Which leave me, a mere mortal,
Breathless and hopelessly blind?
Oh, to catch a glimpse of your
Cape, honey-gold, and the sight
Of your waving gilded hair! You
Carry on your godly duties, holy
Son of the Sun, as you\'ve for
Millenia. Dost thou tire, Sun-Son?
Doth thine fire ever wane? And
Your love for Man, ever-burning;
Will it, extinguished, leave us
In eternal night? Father! Of ages
Ancient I have learned, of olden
Ways have I heard in song and
Prose; the golden Athens, brave
Sparta and the Olympus, godly
Mountain, Sun-kissed kingdom
Of Divinity! Yet, oft we forget
Our forefathers\' glory and woe;
In ignorance we repeat misdeeds
Foretold by history, thinking
Ourselves better, greater, wiser.
What fools we are, to forsake
Your guiding hand, Holy Father!
And the Spirit, which once walked
Among us, all-animating, heavenly
Vigour; dead! No more doth forests
Echo life, no more do seas foam with
Love; and the sky, holy ground of gods,
Shakes no more in thunderous roars!
Oh Life, son of Love; your flowers
Wilt. Shall I fashion a funerary garland
Out of these roses, last kisses of Heaven?
Hyperion! The day bleeds black, the night
Envelops us; forever dead, forever sad.