Strophe:
Beneath the silver olive boughs they tread,
Epimelides, shepherdesses of spring,
Their voices rise where winding pastures spread,
And echo through the hills with feathered wing.
They watch the lambs as dew still clings to grass,
And guide the flocks as shadows slowly pass.
Antistrophe:
No wolf may breach their silent, steadfast care,
No thief may mark the folds with stealthy tread;
The night is theirs as well, the moonlit air,
And stars lean close above each wandering head.
The shepherdesses, unseen, unsung,
Hold life in balance with a quiet tongue.
Strophe:
Through valley deep and over hillcrest high,
They move like wind that bends the bending wheat;
The shepherd’s call, the watchful eagle’s cry,
All join the rhythm of their measured feet.
The flocks are safe, the morning soft and mild,
By hands that tend the earth, unarmed, yet wild.
Antistrophe:
So sing of those who guard what cannot flee,
Whose care is quiet, faithful, and serene;
The Epimelides, in earth and tree,
Remain where life is gentle and green.
Through them the verdant hills breathe, the lambs lie still,
And pasture thrives beneath their patient will.