Then suddenly the messenger was there

among them, pitched in like some new ingredient

for the bubbling, simmering wedding feast.

But no one drinking knew it; no one sensed

the secret entrance of the god, who wrapped

his godhood round him like a thick wet cloak,

and seemed just one of them — someone or other —

as he moved among them. Suddenly,

a guest, mid-sentence, saw the young host, now

no longer languid, leap up from reclining

as if he had been jerked. All over him,

in his whole being, an alien quality

was mirrored — that which terribly addressed him.

At that, as if the roiling noise had cleared,

silence was there, and only lees were left —

just turbid, mumbling dregs; a sediment

of falling babble rancid even now,

already reeking of its stagnant laughter.

And then they knew him for the slender god.

He stood there adamant and filled within

with all his mission, which they almost knew.

Yet when it was pronounced it was beyond

all knowing — knowledge none could ever grasp:

he now must die. But when? Within the hour.

But then his shell of fear was broken —

cracked in pieces — and from out of it

he stretched his hands to bargain with the god:

for years; for only one more year of youth;

for months; for weeks; for just a few more days;

oh, not for days, but only nights — just one!

a single night; for this one night; for this!

The god denied him and Admetus cried

out — screamed. He did not hold it in. He cried out

as his mother cried in bearing him.

Then she stepped up to him, an aged woman.

His father also came — his ancient father —

and both stood there, old, worn out, and perplexed,

beside their wailing son, who looked at them

more closely than ever, stopped, gulped, and said:

Vater,

liegt dir denn viel daran an diesem Rest,

an diesem Satz, der dich beim Schlingen hindert?

Geh, gieß ihn weg. Und du, du alte Frau,