Now all labors,
The seasoning of life,
Are prepared and completed above.
Everything pleases,
Simple things the most.
The long-sought golden fruit
Has fallen from the ancient tree
After devastating storms,
But then is guarded by holy Fate, with
gentle weapons, like a treasured possession.
This has the shape of the gods.
Like a lioness, Mother,
Nature, you lament,
Having lost your children.
Your enemy, all-loving one,
Has stolen them from you,
Since you adopted him almost
To be your own son, placing
Gods in the company of satyrs.
Thus you’ve created much
And buried much,
Because that which you brought
To light too soon, all-powerful one,
Now hates you.
But this too you recognize and accept;
For whatever arouses fear prefers
To rest insensate below
Until its time has come.
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The last strophe of the poem is cryptic, but becomes somewhat more intelligible if Christ is accepted as Prince of the Festival and likewise Nature's son. Brought into the world too early, he was placed in the company of sub-human satyrs and became lost to Nature, and he now awaits a second coming.
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