by Robert Graves
Cronos the Ruddy, steer your boat
Toward Silver Island whence we sing;
Here you shall pass your days.
Through a thick-growing alder-wood
We clearly see, but are not seen,
Hid in a golden haze.
Our hair the hue of barley sheaf,
Our eyes the hue of blackbird’s egg,
Our cheeks like asphodel.
Here the wild apple blossoms yet;
Wrens in the silver branches play
And prophesy you well.
Here nothing ill or harsh is found.
Crones the Ruddy, steer your boat
Across these placid straits,
With each of us in turn to lie
Taking your pleasure on young grass
That for your coming waits.
No grief nor gloom, sickness nor death,
Disturbs our long tranquillity;
No treachery, no greed.
Compared with this, what are the plains
Of Elis, where you ruled as king?
A wilderness indeed.
A starry crown awaits your head,
A hero feast is spread for you:
Swineflesh, milk and mead.