A.E. Housman (1859–1936)

’Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain

        When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,

And mute’s the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,

        And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,

        The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;

And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking

        That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;

        But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.

’Tis true there’s better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;

        And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

        The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.