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Hymn to Dionysos

Anonymous
O Insewn God--born from Zeus' thigh--
   some folk say in Drakanon,
some in windy Ikaros,
   others say in Naxos,
or by the deep-eddying river Alpheos,
pregnant Semele bore you to thunder-loving Zeus.
Others say you were born in Thebes, Lord,
but all of them lie:
   the father of men and gods gave birth to you
far from people, hidden from white-armed Hera.
There is a certain Nysa, a towering mountain, 
   blooming with woods,
far from Phoenicia, near the streams of Egypt . . .
[missing lines]
"…People will raise many statues in your temples.
Semele, since […] was cut into three, every third year
humans will sacrifice to you a hundred perfect bulls."
So spoke the son of Kronos nodding his dark-blue brows-
the king's divine hair swirled about
his immortal head, as he shook great Olympos.
With those words, wise Zeus nodded his command.
Be gracious, Insewn, maker of maenads.
We bards sing of you first and last; there is no way
to forget you and still remember holy song.
O Dionysos, God sewn in Zeus' thigh, rejoice
with your mother Semele, whom some call Thyone.

From The Homeric Hymns: A Translation with Introduction and Notes by Diane Rayo Copyright © 2004 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted by permission of the University of California Press. All rights reserved.

From The Homeric Hymns: A Translation with Introduction and Notes by Diane Rayo Copyright © 2004 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted by permission of the University of California Press. All rights reserved.

Anonymous

by this poet

poem
Earth took of earth earth with ill;
Earth other earth gave earth with a will.
Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:
Then earth in earth had of earth its fill.



Erthe Toc of Erthe

Erthe toc of erthe erthe wyth woh,
erthe other erthe to the earthe droh,
erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh,
poem
I

'The wind doth blow today, my love,  
  And a few small drops of rain;  
I never had but one true-love;  
  In cold grave she was lain.  
  
II

'I'll do as much for my true-love 
  As any young man may;  
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave  
  For a twelvemonth and a day.'  
  
III

The twelvemonth and a
poem
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn,