When Daedalus had given the last touch,
the craftsman thought he’d try two wings himself;
so balanced, as he beat the wings, he hung
poised in the air. And then to his dear son,
he gave another pair. “O Icarus,”
he said, “I warn you: fly a middle course.
If you’re too low, sea spray may damp your wings;
and if you fly too high, the heat is scorching.
Keep to the middle then. And keep your eyes
on me and not on Helice, Bootes,
or on Orion’s unsheathed sword. Where I
shall lead – that’s where you fly: I’ll be your guide.”
And as he taught his son the rules of flight,
He fitted to the shoulders of the boy
those wings that none had ever seen before.
The old man worked and warmed; his cheeks grew damp
with tears; and with a father’s fears, his hands
began to tremble. Then he kissed his son
(he never would embrace the boy again);
and poised upon his wings, he flew ahead,
still anxious for the follower he led
(much like the bird who, from her nest on high
leads out her tender fledglings to the sky).
He urges on his son, saying he must
keep up, not fall behind; so he instructs
the boy in flight, an art most dangerous;
and while the father beats his wings, he turns
to watch his son, to see what he has done.

A fisherman, who with his pliant rod
was angling there below, caught sight of them;
and then a shepherd leaning on his staff
and, too, a peasant leaning on his plow
saw them and were dismayed: they thought that these
must surely be some gods, sky-voyaging.

Now on their left they had already passed
the isle of Samos – Juno’s favorite –
Delos and Paros, and Calymne, rich
in honey, and Labinthos, on the right.
The boy had now begun to take delight
in his audacity; he left his guide
and, fascinated by the open sky,
flew higher; and the scorching sun was close;
the fragrant wax that bound his wings grew soft,
then melted. As he beats upon the air,
his arms can get no grip; they’re wingless – bare.

The father – though the word is hollow now –
cried: “Icarus! Where are you?” And that cry
echoed again, again till he caught sight
of feathers on the surface of the sea.
And Daedalus cursed his own artistry,
then built a tomb to house his dear son’s body.
There, where the boy was buried, now his name
remains: that island is Icaria.