noon
Come , weave the wreath , the roses weave , The rose at least is ours : To feeble hearts our fathers leave , In pitying scorn , the flowers ! On the summit , worn and hoary , Of Phyle 's solemn hill , The tramp of the brave is still ! And still in the saddening Mart , The pulse of that mighty heart , Whose very blood was glory ! Glaucopis forsakes her own , The angry gods forget us ; But yet , the blue streams along , Walk the feet of the silver Song ; And the night-bird wakes the moon ; And the bees in the blushing noon Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus . We are fallen , but not forlorn , If something is left to cherish ; As Love was the earliest born , So Love is the last to perish . Wreathe then the roses , wreathe The BEAUTIFUL still is ours , While the stream shall flow and the sky shall glow , The BEAUTIFUL still is ours ! Whatever is fair , or soft , or bright , In the lap of day or the arms of night , Whispers our soul of Greece -- of Greece , And hushes our care with a voice of peace .