Idyll to Io of the Mountain

He, Io---of the Mountain everlasting
invites thee to feast
in the geworden mynne's wardsmen's hall,
lone lord under the hills, chief of loafguards
hoarder of all the dainties and treasures,
his feast is bountiful:

a tableau of water he tossed
upon the curling purple knolls
and the Sun is set on red bowl,
in between stout necks of gold.
the hornet gave him river of fermented honey,
the light of moon built him the banquet tent.
buried vapours of gems he call the stars,
and firm is the lofty crown, he them upon beset,
glorified are the guestfriends of he,
when illuming, the vapours of crowning heaven downpours
the shape of cosmos courses down, minstrelling the idyll,
in the unreturning,
the cataract of Time.
(and whither should be the abyss he hoards,
that receives all the times' unsung
and shrill music?)

in the nadir of seasons, he burrowed a camp
at all years' end,
whereover ghost-hooved satyrs came as guests
unknowing labour, and knowing only sweats-of-eye
bedrunk themselves there---amid the green
frolicking in Spring thereof; pale flowers and dark berries for garment,
love for victuals;
forgetting time's queue.
and enjoyed to immortal death they, as many stars leave the fiery dome
one by one removed through the nebula-curtain of dark vines,
the fallen, milky dews of night.
their nonce and hollow minds, drop;
their bleach and ownerless souls, fall.
and the feasts of satyrs came to an end.

He, Io, stars' host in the Mountain everlasting,
buried king under the hills,
in thy feast's departure, in the geworden mynne's wardsmen's hall,
to the ghost-hooved satyrs he appeared,
and broke and gifted,
the joyful sleepers' rings,
and in death he calls thee----dear guest, 
the feast is over, the lamps expire…
the pyre's tears extinguished, in hazy stars' shooting fire.
the cream-takers came, to take the starry ocean's cream;
those are sea's butterlings, and the herald of dusk.
the Doomer of Host, I stand in the lone lord's submerged chamber
below the geworden mynne's wardsmen's hall, watching their coming
Io mute, milk-crier and dreams' colours' papillions;
I let milky star rise and fall in numerous fires.
I was, and I am, speech of fate; I now tell the truth:
the nobly-given of sleepers' rings, wardsmen of sleep.
Io the butterfly, Lord he changed, and is the sleeper no more.
the nebula of knotted-swim-strokes sail away, the Mountain is laid bare.
And the sleep and the dream is yours, the glorious dead.*

*尊い紫微人（しびと）たち