Only one who has raised the lyre 

Praising, that’s it! As one ordered to praise

he emerged like the ore from the silent stone. 

His heart, O the transient wine-press, among mankind, of an inexhaustible wine. 

When the divine mode grips him,
the voice in his mouth never fails.

All becomes vineyard, all becomes grape, grown riper in his feeling’s south. 

Neither the must in the tombs of the kings nor from the gods that a shadow falls, detracts at all from his praising. 

He’s a messenger, who always remains,
still holding far through the doors of the dead a dish with fruit they can praise. 

Only one who has raised the lyre already, among the shades, may sense how to return the unending praise. 

Only one who, with the dead, ate of the poppy, theirs, from them, will not lose the slightest note ever again. 

Wish even the image in the pond that blurs for us, often:
know the reflection. 

Only within the double sphere will the voices become
kind, and eternal.