Andrew Lang - BionAndrew Lang - Bion
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The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying
The Muses heard, and loved it long ago;
They heard the hollows of the hills replying,
They heard the weeping water`s overflow;
They winged the sacred strain--the song undying,
The song that all about the world must go, -
When poets for a poet dead are sighing,
The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low.
And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping
For Adonais by the summer sea,
The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping
Far from `the forest ground called Thessaly`),
These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping,
And are but echoes of the moan for thee.
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