Deadly pale the God's face went-as pallid as the boy's.
With care he lifted the sad huddled form.
The kind god tries to warm you back to life, and next endeavors to attend your wound,
and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.
His skill is no advantage, for the wound is past all art of cure.
As if someone, when in a garden, breaks off violets, poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,
then drooping they must hang their withered heads, and gaze down towards the earth beneath them;
so, the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck, a burden to itself, falls back upon his shoulder :
โYou are fallen in your prime defrauded of your youth, O Oebalides [Hyakinthos]!' Moaned Apollo
`I can see in your sad wound my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief and self-reproach.
My own hand gave you death unmerited--I only can be charged with your destruction.--
What have I done wrong? Can it be called a fault to play with you?
Should loving you be called a fault?
And oh, that I might now give up my life for you! Or die with you!
But since our destinies prevent us you shall always be with me,
and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.
The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs will always celebrate you.
A new flower you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans
Hyacinthus was a Spartan Prince and lover Apollo. He died when the discus thrown by Apollo accidentally struck his head. From the blood of Hyacinthus sprung the larkspur flowers. Apollo, heartbroken, inscribed the exclamation of woe, Ai Ai, on the petals of the flowers and promised to always remember his lover in his songs and music.
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