To Hephaistos

I call to Hephaistos, ingenious son of Hera,
father of fair-tressed maids and bold-hearted heroes.
On the isle of Lemnos, where stood your fiery forge,
a land beloved by you above all others,
were you well honored; by those who work in bronze
and smith hot iron were you lauded throughout
the land. With grey-eyed Athena you stood
over high-pillared Athens, side by side,
guarding the splendid city of your common heir.
Mighty Hephaistos, master of all craft and art,
builder of palaces, maker of keen-edged swords
and impenetrable armor, creator of
all manner of finely-worked trinkets and baubles.
Beauty falls from your hands, Hephaistos, as artistry
falls to those you favor. God of skills, I call to you.

To Eros

I call to Eros, ancient one, child of chaos,
child of love and of strife, kin of the deep earth,
companion of laughter-loving Aphrodite.
Eros, confounding one, fleet-footed bearer
of shafts so sharp we scarcely feel the prick,
and yet no cut do we feel so deeply. Eros,
in Thespia and in Parios were you much honored;
in all the lands did men and women speak your name
with hope and reverence, burning sweet incense
and pouring out wine. All know your might, O Eros;
all know the barbs of your blessed darts, all know
the pain of such a wound; and all would sooner
be your prey than seek to dodge your bolt. Eros,
granter of the dearest gifts, clouder of senses,
piercer of hearts, loosener of limbs, I call to you.

To Pan

I call to Pan, son of fleet-footed Hermes,
ever in the company of vine-crowned Dionysos,
cherished companion of full-hearted Rhea,
playmate of the mischievous nymphs. In Arcadia
were you well loved, O Pan; in sylvan groves
and deep-hewn grottos did shepherds and their sweethearts
speak your name, joyously, prayerfully, lovingly;
in cities and in villages your altars stood,
in woodlands and in flowered fields your shrines were raised.
Sweet is the sound of your pipes, O Pan, nimble the feet
of the pretty maids who follow in your dance.
Yours are all the country pleasures, the rustic song,
the simple revel; yours too the soul-seizing
dread called panic, that causeless fear that grasps and clings;
yours the open heart of passion. Pan, I call to you.