Orpheus was the most fantastic musician of all time. It is said that his music was so beautiful that it moved gods, humans, and animals alike. He was truly gifted; his voice could bring about any emotion, and his lyre any rhythm. Despite being the son of Apollo, the god of music, and Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry and eloquence, he remained a noble-spirited mortal.

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Apart from his music, he lived for one thing only: Eurydice. She loved Orpheus as much as he loved her. On the day they got married, she danced in the meadows, joyful in celebration beside the riverbank. Until tragedy arrived. Eurydice failed to notice a snake that was lying nearby. It took one bite for her to die.

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Orpheus was crushed. His heart turned to parts. But the power of his love was so profound that he set out on a quest to get her back.

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The story of Orpheus is not only one of the most beautiful in Greek mythology—it is also a founding stone of tragedy and drama, particularly in music. To give you an idea, Claudio Monteverdi used the myth to present the first grand opera in history. His “L’Orfeo” marked a new era—apart from expanding the operatic form with richer orchestration, he introduced a kind of expression with emotional depth so powerful that the work is still performed and deeply cherished today, even after 400 years.

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Joseph Haydn, the Austrian composer, also wrote an opera based on the myth for King George III of Great Britain. It was titled “L’anima del Filosofo.” For mysterious reasons, the piece was banned and never staged during Haydn’s lifetime. It wasn’t until 1951 that it was finally performed—with Maria Callas taking on the role of Eurydice.

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The mature works of Richard Wagner, the greatest opera composer of all time, also show a clear influence from the myth. The themes of music’s power, descent into the underworld, redemption through love, and tragic loss are all deeply present in his later operas.

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Orpheus knew that to bring Eurydice back to life, he would have to journey into the underworld, where she—and all the dead—now rested. Neither money nor prayers would help him gain entry, so he did what he knew best: he began to sing.

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The bile-green snakes on the heads of the Furies turned silent and let Orpheus pass as he moved toward the entrance of the realm of death. There, he met Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guards the gates. Enchanted by the music, Cerberus let his three mouths hang open in awe, allowing Orpheus to pass without trouble.

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At the shore of the river Styx, which separates the realm of the living from that of the dead, Orpheus met Charon, the ferryman who transports souls across. By this point, it was clear: Orpheus’ music was so powerful that it could soften even the hardest hearts and momentarily bring peace to a place of eternal torment. Charon ferried him across, where Hades and Persephone awaited.

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The myth of Orpheus has fascinated intellectuals throughout history. Plato, in the “Symposium,” used it to illustrate what artful persuasion without philosophical courage leads to. Nietzsche, in “The Birth of Tragedy,” draws on it to show how Greek tragedy shifts from dreamlike beauty to chaotic reality. He sees Orpheus as a musician who embodies the power of art to bring harmony to human suffering—yet his fate also reveals existence’s harsh truths.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote “Sonnets to Orpheus”—a work he described as “perhaps the most mysterious in the way they came up and entrusted themselves to me, the most enigmatic dictation I have ever held through and achieved.”

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Then there’s Hegel, the German philosopher and one of the most influential thinkers in modern history. He used the myth of Orpheus to explore the power of music and poetry as forces that engage with history, spirit, and human longing.

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Among the many layers of the Orpheus myth lies the figure of Hades, ruler of the underworld—the very realm Orpheus dared to enter. One of the three supreme mythological deities, Hades is an Olympian god who, after defeating the Titans, divided the world with his brothers. Zeus took the sky, Poseidon the sea, and Hades was given dominion over the underworld, the kingdom of the dead.

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He ruled alongside Persephone, a young and beautiful maiden, daughter of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture and fertility. According to the myth, Hades, utterly taken by her beauty, kidnapped her while she was gathering flowers in an open field and brought her down into his shadowy realm to become his queen. In time, Persephone grew to love him.

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Her mother, however, was inconsolable. Demeter’s grief over her daughter’s absence was so deep that crops failed to grow, trees shed their leaves, and flowers stopped blooming—bringing famine and sorrow to humankind. Eventually, an agreement was reached: Persephone would spend six months of the year with Hades and six months with her mother. Demeter’s mourning during the months her daughter is below explains the arrival of autumn and winter, while her joy upon Persephone’s return marks the coming of spring and summer.

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And so, Orpheus found himself standing before the throne of Hades and Persephone, who looked at him in astonishment—a living soul was a rare sight in the deep soil of the underworld. His music had awarded him passage, and he knew it was the only thing that could carry his plea. With hope in his voice, tears in his eyes, and lyre in hand, he sang the following words:

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“I journey for my wife, whose blooming years

a trampled viper’s venom stole away.

I’ve wished and tried to bear it, but I’ve lost

to love, a god well-known above—though here,

I cannot say. And yet, I think he is:

if tales of ancient ravishment are true,

love joined you, too.

So, please, by these dread lands,

by Chaos and these vast and silent realms,

rewind Eurydice’s untimely fate!

All things are due to you; though we abide

for long or short, we hasten to one place.

We all come here! This is our final home!

Your reign is the longest over humankind.

When she has rightly reached a riper age,

you’ll rule her, too. I seek this gift on loan,

but if the Fates deny her, I’m resolved

to stay and cheer you with our double death.”

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Upon hearing him sing, the spirits—who could no longer feel anything—gathered and wept. Tantalus, eternally punished to stand in a pool of water that recedes whenever he bends to drink, forgot his thirst. Ixion’s ever-spinning wheel halted, and Tityus’ liver, which is devoured daily by vultures only to regenerate, was left untouched. The Belides, the fifty daughters of Danaus, condemned to eternally carry water in leaking urns for murdering their husbands on their wedding night, paused their endless task. Even Sisyphus, doomed to push his stone up a hill forever, sat down upon it at last.

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The king and queen of the underworld could not resist. Music had moved them. They called for Eurydice, who, still among the recent shades and wounded from her death, limped forth to meet Orpheus. Hades—who had never granted such a request before—struck a deal: Orpheus could take her home. But there was one condition: he could not look at her until they had fully ascended from the realm of death and stepped into the world of the living.

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When they were just about to reach the upper world, Orpheus couldn’t resist. Longing stepped in his way. He turned his head and looked at Eurydice. She met his gaze—without blame, without resentment. After all, how could she fault him for loving her too much?

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In that moment, she fell back into the shadows—a second death. Orpheus rushed once more to the entrance of the underworld, but this time, the doors would not open. It was done. He had lost her forever.

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Orpheus wandered from town to town, making people weep with his sorrowful music—beautiful, yes, but painful to hear. Until, at last, death came for him too.

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Apollo, moved by the tragedy of Orpheus’ life and the depth of his music, decided to make him eternal. To remind us of the power of music and love, he took Orpheus’ lyre and placed it among the stars. Now, whenever we look up at night, we can see the instrument—shining in the constellation that bears its name.