Here are fine gifts, children,
O friend, singer on the clear tortoise lyre,
all my flesh is wrinkled with age,
my black hair has faded to white,
my legs can no longer carry me,
once nimble as a fawn’s,
but what can I do?
It cannot be undone,
No more than can pink-armed Dawn
not end in darkness on earth,
or keep her love for Tithonos,
who must waste away;