'What hast thou?
Part it from thyself and leave it with us!' "Ibycus, who could sing of the wars of the Greeks and the Trojans no less well than of the joys of young love, made stand, held close to him his lyre, but raised on high his staff of oak.

Then from behind one struck him with a keen knife, and he sank, and lay in his blood.

The place was the edge of a glade, where the trees thinned away and the sky might be seen overhead.

And now, across the blue heaven, came a second line of the south-ward-going cranes.

They flew low, they flapped their wings, and the wood heard their crying.