My Favorite Myth

My favorite Greek myth is that of the boy Hyacinthus and the god Apollo:

"The Story of Apollo and Hyacinthus"
(from Ovid's Metamorphoses)

There was another boy, who might have had
A place in Heaven, at Apollo's order,
Had Fate seen fit to give him time, and still
He is, in his own fashion, an immortal.
Whenever spring drives winter out, and the Ram
Succeeds the wintry Fish, he springs to blossom
On the green turf. My father loved him dearly,
This Hyacinthus, and left Delphi for him,
Outward from the world's center, on to Sparta,
The town that has no walls, and Eurotas River.
Quiver and lyre were nothing to him there,
No more than his own dignity; he carried
The nets for fellows hunting, and held the dogs
In leash for them, and with them roamed the trails
Of the rough mountain ridges. In their train
He fed the fire with long association.
It was noon one day: Apollo, Hyacinthus,
Stripped, rubbed themselves with oil, and tried their skill
At discus-throwing. Apollo sent the missile
Far through the air, so far it pierced the clouds,
A long time coming down, and when it fell
Proved both his strength and skill, and Hyacinthus,
All eager for his turn, heedless of danger,
Went running to pick it up, before it settled
Fully to earth. It bounded once and struck him
Full in the face, and he grew deadly pale
As the pale god caught up the huddled body,
Trying to warm the dreaful chill that held it,
Trying to staunch the wound, to keep the spirit
With healing herbs, but all the arts were useless,
The wound was past all cure. So, in a garden,
If one breaks off a violet or poppy
Or lilies, bristling with their yellow stamens,
And they droop over, and cannot raise their heads,
But look on earth, so sand the dying features,
The neck, its strength all gone, lolled on the shoulder.
'Fallen before your time, O Hyacinthus,'
Apollo cried, 'I see your wound, my crime:
You are my sorrow, my reproach; my hand
Has been your murderer. But how am I
To blame? Where is my guilt, except in playing
With you, in loving you? I cannot die
For you, or with you either; the law of Fate
Keeps us apart: it shall not! You will be
With me forever, and my songs and music
Will tell of you, and you will be reborn
As a new flower whose markings will spell out
My cries of grief, and there will come a time
When a great hero's name will be the same
As this flower's markings.' So Apollo spoke,
And it was truth he told, for on the ground
The blood was blood no longer; in its place
A flower grew, brighter than any crimson,
Like lilies with their silver changed to crimson.
That was not all; Apollo kept the promise
About the markings, and inscribed the flower
With his own grieving words; Ai, Ai
The petals say, Greek for Alas! In Sparta,
Even to this day, they hold their son in honor,
And when the day comes round, they celebrate
The rites for Hyacinthus, as did their fathers.

This is one version of the tale - their are several (as happens with any oral tradition) - but is one of the best. Enjoy it as I have!