II
Reading edition
“Whom the gods love die young.” The thought is old; And yet it soothed the sweet Athenian mind. I take it with all pleasure, overbold, Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclined By an inherent love for what is fair. This is the utter poetry of woe— That the bright-flashing gods should cure despair By love, and make youth precious here below. I die, being young; and, dying, could become A pagan, with the tender Grecian trust. Let death, the fell anatomy, benumb The hand that writes, and fill my mouth with dust— Chant no funereal theme, but, with a choral Hymn, O ye mourners! hail immortal youth auroral!