Ah, my friend, gather near, gather near!

The road is long, but the night is young, and the fire is warm. I will sing you the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice and I will sing it the way the wandering bards sing—with the drum in the heel, the lyre in the hand and the refrain that clings to the soul.

"Sing, sing, O lyre of gold,

Sing of love too bright to hold!"

Orpheus was the son of Calliope, Muse of epic song and his voice could charm the stones and the rivers, make the trees bend their boughs to listen, make even the cold-hearted gods turn their heads.

He loved Eurydice, fair as the dawn and she loved him in return—ah, they were one flame! But fate is a hunter, silent in the grass. One day, a serpent’s bite took her from his arms and she was carried to the shadow-lands below.

"Sing, sing, O lyre of gold,

Sing of love too bright to hold!"

Orpheus wept, but his tears were not enough. He took his lyre, and down he went—past the gates of stone, past the river of the dead, past Cerberus, who whimpered and slept at his song.

In the black halls of Hades, he played so sweet that even Persephone wept and the Lord of the Dead’s dark heart stirred.

Hades said: “Take her back to the world of light—but do not look upon her until you stand beneath the sun.”

"Sing, sing, O lyre of gold,

Sing of love too bright to hold!"

Ah, my friend, the climb was long, the way was steep. He could hear her footsteps behind him, soft as a breath, fragile as hope. At last, the mouth of the cave shone before him—light spilling like wine from the jar of the sky.

But doubt is the shadow of love. He feared she was not there—feared the gods had tricked him. He turned—just one glance!—and in that instant she vanished back into the dark, her fingers slipping through his like water.

"Sing, sing, O lyre of gold,

Sing of love too bright to hold!"

So Orpheus wandered the earth alone, singing to the mountains, the rivers, the wind. Even the stones wept for him but the dead do not return.