to the river Erymanthus.

I choose spray of dittany,

cyperum, frail of flower,

buds of myrrh,

all-healing herbs,

close pressed in calathes.

For she lies panting,

drawing sharp breath,

broken with harsh sobs,

she, Hyella,

whom no god pities.

II

Dryads

haunting the groves,

nereids

who dwell in wet caves,

for all the white leaves of olive-branch,

and early roses,

and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries,

which she once brought to your altars,

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