The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics

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Title: Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics

Author: Bliss Carman

Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12389]

Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAPPHO: ONE HUNDRED LYRICS ***

SAPPHO

ONE HUNDRED LYRICS BY BLISS CARMAN

1907

“SAPPHO WHO BROKE OFF A FRAGMENT OF HER SOUL FOR US TO GUESS AT.”

“SAPPHO, WITH THAT GLORIOLE OF EBON HAIR ON CALMÈD BROWS— O POET-WOMAN! NONE FORGOES THE LEAP, ATTAINING THE REPOSE.”

E.B. BROWNING.

INTRODUCTION

THE POETRY OF SAPPHO.—If all the poets and all the lovers of poetry should be asked to name the most precious of the priceless things which time has wrung in tribute from the triumphs of human genius, the answer which would rush to every tongue would be “The Lost Poems of Sappho.” These we know to have been jewels of a radiance so imperishable that the broken gleams of them still dazzle men’s eyes, whether shining from the two small brilliants and the handful of star-dust which alone remain to us, or reflected merely from the adoration of those poets of old time who were so fortunate as to witness their full glory.

For about two thousand five hundred years Sappho has held her place as not only the supreme poet of her sex, but the chief lyrist of all lyrists. Every one who reads acknowledges her fame, concedes her supremacy; but to all except poets and Hellenists her name is a vague and uncomprehended splendour, rising secure above a persistent mist of misconception. In spite of all that is in these days being written about Sappho, it is perhaps not out of place now to inquire, in a few words, into the substance of this supremacy which towers so unassailably secure from what appear to be such shadowy foundations.

First, we have the witness of her contemporaries. Sappho was at the height of her career about six centuries before Christ, at a period when lyric poetry was peculiarly esteemed and cultivated at the centres of Greek life. Among the Molic peoples of the Isles, in particular, it had been carried to a high pitch of perfection, and its forms had become the subject of assiduous study. Its technique was exact, complex, extremely elaborate, minutely regulated; yet the essential fires of sincerity, spontaneity, imagination and passion were flaming with undiminished heat behind the fixed forms and restricted measures. The very metropolis of this lyric realm was Mitylene of Lesbos, where, amid the myrtle groves and temples, the sunlit silver of the fountains, the hyacinth gardens by a soft blue sea, Beauty and Love in their young warmth could fuse the most rigid forms to fluency. Here Sappho was the acknowledged queen of song—revered, studied, imitated, served, adored by a little court of attendants and disciples, loved and hymned by Alcæus, and acclaimed by her fellowcraftsmen throughout Greece as the wonder of her age. That all the tributes of her contemporaries show reverence not less for her personality than for her genius is sufficient answer to the calumnies with which the ribald jesters of that later period, the corrupt and shameless writers of Athenian comedy, strove to defile her fame. It is sufficient, also, to warrant our regarding the picturesque but scarcely dignified story of her vain pursuit of Phaon and her frenzied leap from the Cliff of Leucas as nothing more than a poetic myth, reminiscent, perhaps, of the myth of Aphrodite and Adonis—who is, indeed, called Phaon in some versions. The story is further discredited by the fact that we find no mention of it in Greek literature—even among those Attic comedians who would have clutched at it so eagerly and given it so gross a turn—till a date more than two hundred years after Sappho’s death. It is a myth which has begotten some exquisite literature, both in prose and verse, from Ovid’s famous epistle to Addison’s gracious fantasy and some impassioned and imperishable dithyrambs of Mr. Swinburne; but one need not accept the story as a fact in order to appreciate the beauties which flowered out from its coloured unreality.

The applause of contemporaries, however, is not always justified by the verdict of after-times, and does not always secure an immortality of renown. The fame of Sappho has a more stable basis. Her work was in the world’s possession for not far short of a thousand years—a thousand years of changing tastes, searching criticism, and familiar use. It had to endure the wear and tear of quotation, the commonizing touch of the school and the market-place. And under this test its glory grew ever more and more conspicuous. Through those thousand years poets and critics vied with one another in proclaiming her verse the one unmatched exemplar of lyric art. Such testimony, even though not a single fragment remained to us from which to judge her poetry for ourselves, might well convince us that the supremacy acknowledged by those who knew all the triumphs of the genius of old Greece was beyond the assault of any modern rival. We might safely accept the sustained judgment of a thousand years of Greece.

Fortunately for us, however, two small but incomparable odes and a few scintillating fragments have survived, quoted and handed down in the eulogies of critics and expositors. In these the wisest minds, the greatest poets, and the most inspired teachers of modern days have found justification for the unanimous verdict of antiquity. The tributes of Addison, Tennyson, and others, the throbbing paraphrases and ecstatic interpretations of Swinburne, are too well known to call for special comment in this brief note; but the concise summing up of her genius by Mr. Watts-Dunton in his remarkable essay on poetry is so convincing and illuminating that it seems to demand quotation here: “Never before these songs were sung, and never since did the human soul, in the grip of a fiery passion, utter a cry like hers; and, from the executive point of view, in directness, in lucidity, in that high, imperious verbal economy which only nature can teach the artist, she has no equal, and none worthy to take the place of second.”

The poems of Sappho so mysteriously lost to us seem to have consisted of at least nine books of odes, together with epithalamia, epigrams, elegies, and monodies. Of the several theories which have been advanced to account for their disappearance, the most plausible seems to be that which represents them as having been burned at Byzantium in the year 380 Anno Domini, by command of Gregory Nazianzen, in order that his own poems might be studied in their stead and the morals of the people thereby improved. Of the efficacy of this act no means of judging has come down to us.

In recent years there has arisen a great body of literature upon the subject of Sappho, most of it the abstruse work of scholars writing for scholars. But the gist of it all, together with the minutest surviving fragment of her verse, has been made available to the general reader in English by Mr. Henry T. Wharton, in whose altogether admirable little volume we find all that is known and the most apposite of all that has been said up to the present day about

“Love’s priestess, mad with pain and joy of song,

Song’s priestess, mad with joy and pain of love.”

Perhaps the most perilous and the most alluring venture in the whole field of poetry is that which Mr. Carman has undertaken in attempting to give us in English verse those lost poems of Sappho of which fragments have survived. The task is obviously not one of translation or of paraphrasing, but of imaginative and, at the same time, interpretive construction. It is as if a sculptor of to-day were to set himself, with reverence, and trained craftsmanship, and studious familiarity with the spirit, technique, and atmosphere of his subject, to restore some statues of Polyclitus or Praxiteles of which he had but a broken arm, a foot, a knee, a finger upon which to build. Mr. Carman’s method, apparently, has been to imagine each lost lyric as discovered, and then to translate it; for the indefinable flavour of the translation is maintained throughout, though accompanied by the fluidity and freedom of purely original work.

C.G.D. ROBERTS.

Now to please my little friend

I must make these notes of spring,

With the soft south-west wind in them

And the marsh notes of the frogs.

I must take a gold-bound pipe,

And outmatch the bubbling call

From the beechwoods in the sunlight,

From the meadows in the rain.

CONTENTS

Now to please my little friend

I Cyprus, Paphos, or Panormus

II What shall we do, Cytherea?

III Power and beauty and knowledge

IV O Pan of the evergreen forest

V O Aphrodite

VI Peer of the gods he seems

VII The Cyprian came to thy cradle

VIII Aphrodite of the foam

IX Nay, but always and forever

X Let there be garlands, Dica

XI When the Cretan maidens

XII In a dream I spoke with the Cyprus-born

XIII Sleep thou in the bosom

XIV Hesperus, bringing together

XV In the grey olive-grove a small brown bird

XVI In the apple boughs the coolness

XVII Pale rose leaves have fallen

XVIII The courtyard of her house is wide

XIX There is a medlar-tree

XX I behold Arcturus going westward

XXI Softly the first step of twilight

XXII Once you lay upon my bosom

XXIII I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago

XXIV I shall be ever maiden

XXV It was summer when I found you

XXVI I recall thy white gown, cinctured

XXVII Lover, art thou of a surety

XXVIII With your head thrown backward

XXIX Ah, what am I but a torrent

XXX Love shakes my soul, like a mountain wind

XXXI Love, let the wind cry

XXXII Heart of mine, if all the altars

XXXIII Never yet, love, in earth’s lifetime

XXXIV “Who was Atthis?” men shall ask

XXXV When the great pink mallow

XXXVI When I pass thy door at night

XXXVII Well I found you in the twilit garden

XXXVIII Will not men remember us

XXXIX I grow weary of the foreign cities

XL Ah, what detains thee, Phaon

XLI Phaon, O my lover

XLII O heart of insatiable longing

XLIII Surely somehow, in some measure

XLIV O but my delicate lover

XLV Softer than the hill-fog to the forest

XLVI I seek and desire

XLVII Like torn sea-kelp in the drift

XLVIII Fine woven purple linen

XLIX When I am home from travel

L When I behold the pharos shine

LI Is the day long

LII Lo, on the distance a dark blue ravine

LIII Art thou the top-most apple

LIV How soon will all my lovely days be over

LV Soul of sorrow, why this weeping?

LVI It never can be mine

LVII Others shall behold the sun

LVIII Let thy strong spirit never fear

LIX Will none say of Sappho

LX When I have departed

LXI There is no more to say, now thou art still

LXII Play up, play up thy silver flute

LXIII A beautiful child is mine

LXIV Ah, but now henceforth

LXV Softly the wind moves through the radiant morning

LXVI What the west wind whispers

LXVII Indoors the fire is kindled

LXVIII You ask how love can keep the mortal soul

LXIX Like a tall forest were their spears

LXX My lover smiled, “O friend, ask not

LXXI Ye who have the stable world

LXXII I heard the gods reply

LXXIII The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough

LXXIV If death be good

LXXV Tell me what this life means

LXXVI Ye have heard how Marsyas

LXXVII Hour by hour I sit

LXXVIII Once in the shining street

LXXIX How strange is love, O my lover

LXXX How to say I love you

LXXXI Hark, love, to the tambourines

LXXXII Over the roofs the honey-coloured moon

LXXXIII In the quiet garden world

LXXXIV Soft was the wind in the beech-trees

LXXXV Have ye heard the news of Sappho’s garden

LXXXVI Love is so strong a thing

LXXXVII Hadst thou with all thy loveliness been true

LXXXVIII As on a morn a traveller might emerge

LXXXIX Where shall I look for thee

XC O sad, sad face and saddest eyes that ever

XCI Why have the gods in derision

XCII Like a red lily in the meadow grasses

XCIII When in the spring the swallows all return

XCIV Cold is the wind where Daphne sleeps

XCV Hark, where Poseidon’s

XCVI Hark, my lover, it is spring!

XCVII When the early soft spring wind comes blowing

XCVIII I am more tremulous than shaken reeds

XCIX Over the wheat field

C Once more the rain on the mountain

Epilogue

SAPPHO

I

Cyprus, Paphos, or Panormus

May detain thee with their splendour

Of oblations on thine altars,

O imperial Aphrodite.

Yet do thou regard, with pity 5

For a nameless child of passion,

This small unfrequented valley

By the sea, O sea-born mother.

II

What shall we do, Cytherea?

Lovely Adonis is dying.

Ah, but we mourn him!

Will he return when the Autumn

Purples the earth, and the sunlight 5

Sleeps in the vineyard?

Will he return when the Winter

Huddles the sheep, and Orion

Goes to his hunting?

Ah, but thy beauty, Adonis, 10

With the soft spring and the south wind,

Love and desire!

III

Power and beauty and knowledge,—

Pan, Aphrodite, or Hermes,—

Whom shall we life-loving mortals

Serve and be happy?

Lo now, your garlanded altars, 5

Are they not goodly with flowers?

Have ye not honour and pleasure

In lovely Lesbos?

Will ye not, therefore, a little

Hearten, impel, and inspire 10

One who adores, with a favour

Threefold in wonder?

IV

O Pan of the evergreen forest,

Protector of herds in the meadows,

Helper of men at their toiling,—

Tillage and harvest and herding,—

How many times to frail mortals 5

Hast thou not hearkened!

Now even I come before thee

With oil and honey and wheat-bread,

Praying for strength and fulfilment

Of human longing, with purpose 10

Ever to keep thy great worship

Pure and undarkened.

* * * * *

O Hermes, master of knowledge,

Measure and number and rhythm,

Worker of wonders in metal, 15

Moulder of malleable music,

So often the giver of secret

Learning to mortals!

Now even I, a fond woman,

Frail and of small understanding, 20

Yet with unslakable yearning

Greatly desiring wisdom,

Come to the threshold of reason

And the bright portals.

* * * * *

And thou, sea-born Aphrodite, 25

In whose beneficent keeping

Earth, with her infinite beauty,

Colour and fashion and fragrance,

Glows like a flower with fervour

Where woods are vernal! 30

Touch with thy lips and enkindle

This moon-white delicate body,

Drench with the dew of enchantment

This mortal one, that I also

Grow to the measure of beauty 35

Fleet yet eternal.

V

O Aphrodite,

God-born and deathless,

Break not my spirit

With bitter anguish:

Thou wilful empress, 5

I pray thee, hither!

As once aforetime

Well thou didst hearken

To my voice far off,—

Listen, and leaving 10

Thy father’s golden

House in yoked chariot,

Come, thy fleet sparrows

Beating the mid-air

Over the dark earth. 15

Suddenly near me,

Smiling, immortal,

Thy bright regard asked

What had befallen,—

Why I had called thee,— 20

What my mad heart then

Most was desiring.

“What fair thing wouldst thou

Lure now to love thee?

“Who wrongs thee, Sappho? 25

If now she flies thee,

Soon shall she follow;—

Scorning thy gifts now,

Soon be the giver;—

And a loth loved one 30

“Soon be the lover.”

So even now, too,

Come and release me

From mordant love pain,

And all my heart’s will 35

Help me accomplish!

VI

Peer of the gods he seems,

Who in thy presence

Sits and hears close to him

Thy silver speech-tones

And lovely laughter. 5

Ah, but the heart flutters

Under my bosom,

When I behold thee

Even a moment;

Utterance leaves me; 10

My tongue is useless;

A subtle fire

Runs through my body;

My eyes are sightless,

And my ears ringing; 15

I flush with fever,

And a strong trembling

Lays hold upon me;

Paler than grass am I,

Half dead for madness. 20

Yet must I, greatly

Daring, adore thee,

As the adventurous

Sailor makes seaward

For the lost sky-line 25

And undiscovered

Fabulous islands,

Drawn by the lure of

Beauty and summer

And the sea’s secret. 30

VII

The Cyprian came to thy cradle,

When thou wast little and small,

And said to the nurse who rocked thee

“Fear not thou for the child:

“She shall be kindly favoured, 5

And fair and fashioned well,

As befits the Lesbian maidens

And those who are fated to love.”

Hermes came to thy cradle,

Resourceful, sagacious, serene, 10

And said, “The girl must have knowledge,

To lend her freedom and poise.

Naught will avail her beauty,

If she have not wit beside.

She shall be Hermes’ daughter, 15

Passing wise in her day.”

Great Pan came to thy cradle,

With calm of the deepest hills,

And smiled, “They have forgotten

The veriest power of life. 20

“To kindle her shapely beauty,

And illumine her mind withal,

I give to the little person

The glowing and craving soul.”

VIII

Aphrodite of the foam,

Who hast given all good gifts,

And made Sappho at thy will

Love so greatly and so much,

Ah, how comes it my frail heart 5

Is so fond of all things fair,

I can never choose between

Gorgo and Andromeda?

IX

Nay, but always and forever

Like the bending yellow grain,

Or quick water in a channel,

Is the heart of man.

Comes the unseen breath in power 5

Like a great wind from the sea,

And we bow before his coming,

Though we know not why.

X

Let there be garlands, Dica,

Around thy lovely hair.

And supple sprays of blossom

Twined by thy soft hands.

Whoso is crowned with flowers 5

Has favour with the gods,

Who have no kindly eyes

For the ungarlanded.

XI

When the Cretan maidens

Dancing up the full moon

Round some fair new altar,

Trample the soft blossoms of fine grass,

There is mirth among them. 5

Aphrodite’s children

Ask her benediction

On their bridals in the summer night.

XII

In a dream I spoke with the Cyprus-born,

And said to her,

“Mother of beauty, mother of joy,

Why hast thou given to men

“This thing called love, like the ache of a wound 5

In beauty’s side,

To burn and throb and be quelled for an hour

And never wholly depart?”

And the daughter of Cyprus said to me,

“Child of the earth, 10

Behold, all things are born and attain,

But only as they desire,—

“The sun that is strong, the gods that are wise,

The loving heart,

Deeds and knowledge and beauty and joy,— 15

But before all else was desire.”

XIII

Sleep thou in the bosom

Of the tender comrade,

While the living water

Whispers in the well-run,

And the oleanders 5

Glimmer in the moonlight.

Soon, ah, soon the shy birds

Will be at their fluting,

And the morning planet

Rise above the garden; 10

For there is a measure

Set to all things mortal.

XIV

Hesperus, bringing together

All that the morning star scattered,—

Sheep to be folded in twilight,

Children for mothers to fondle,—

Me too will bring to the dearest, 5

Tenderest breast in all Lesbos.

XV

In the grey olive-grove a small brown bird

Had built her nest and waited for the spring.

But who could tell the happy thought that came

To lodge beneath my scarlet tunic’s fold?

All day long now is the green earth renewed 5

With the bright sea-wind and the yellow blossoms.

From the cool shade I hear the silver plash

Of the blown fountain at the garden’s end.

XVI

In the apple boughs the coolness

Murmurs, and the grey leaves flicker

Where sleep wanders.

In this garden all the hot noon

I await thy fluttering footfall 5

Through the twilight.

XVII

Pale rose leaves have fallen

In the fountain water;

And soft reedy flute-notes

Pierce the sultry quiet.

But I wait and listen, 5

Till the trodden gravel

Tells me, all impatience,

It is Phaon’s footstep.

XVIII

The courtyard of her house is wide

And cool and still when day departs.

Only the rustle of leaves is there

And running water.

And then her mouth, more delicate 5

Than the frail wood-anemone,

Brushes my cheek, and deeper grow

The purple shadows.

XIX

There is a medlar-tree

Growing in front of my lover’s house,

And there all day

The wind makes a pleasant sound.

And when the evening comes, 5

We sit there together in the dusk,

And watch the stars

Appear in the quiet blue.

XX

I behold Arcturus going westward

Down the crowded slope of night-dark azure,

While the Scorpion with red Antares

Trails along the sea-line to the southward.

From the ilex grove there comes soft laughter,— 5

My companions at their glad love-making,—

While that curly-headed boy from Naxos

With his jade flute marks the purple quiet.

XXI

Softly the first step of twilight

Falls on the darkening dial,

One by one kindle the lights

In Mitylene.

Noises are hushed in the courtyard, 5

The busy day is departing,

Children are called from their games,—

Herds from their grazing.

And from the deep-shadowed angles

Comes the soft murmur of lovers, 10

Then through the quiet of dusk

Bright sudden laughter.

From the hushed street, through the portal,

Where soon my lover will enter,

Comes the pure strain of a flute 15

Tender with passion.

XXII

Once you lay upon my bosom,

While the long blue-silver moonlight

Walked the plain, with that pure passion

All your own.

Now the moon is gone, the Pleiads 5

Gone, the dead of night is going;

Slips the hour, and on my bed

I lie alone.

XXIII

I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago,

When the great oleanders were in flower

In the broad herded meadows full of sun.

And we would often at the fall of dusk

Wander together by the silver stream, 5

When the soft grass-heads were all wet with dew,

And purple-misted in the fading light.

And joy I knew and sorrow at thy voice,

And the superb magnificence of love,—

The loneliness that saddens solitude, 10

And the sweet speech that makes it durable,—

The bitter longing and the keen desire,

The sweet companionship through quiet days

In the slow ample beauty of the world,

And the unutterable glad release 15

Within the temple of the holy night.

O Atthis, how I loved thee long ago

In that fair perished summer by the sea!

XXIV

I shall be ever maiden,

If thou be not my lover,

And no man shall possess me

Henceforth and forever.

But thou alone shalt gather 5

This fragile flower of beauty,—

To crush and keep the fragrance

Like a holy incense.

Thou only shalt remember

This love of mine, or hallow 10

The coming years with gladness,

Calm and pride and passion.

XXV

It was summer when I found you

In the meadow long ago,—

And the golden vetch was growing

By the shore.

Did we falter when love took us 5

With a gust of great desire?

Does the barley bid the wind wait

In his course?

XXVI

I recall thy white gown, cinctured

With a linen belt, whereon

Violets were wrought, and scented

With strange perfumes out of Egypt.

And I know thy foot was covered 5

With fair Lydian broidered straps;

And the petals from a rose-tree

Fell within the marble basin.

XXVII

Lover, art thou of a surety

Not a learner of the wood-god?

Has the madness of his music

Never touched thee?

Ah, thou dear and godlike mortal, 5

If Pan takes thee for his pupil,

Make me but another Syrinx

For that piping.

XXVIII

With your head thrown backward

In my arm’s safe hollow,

And your face all rosy

With the mounting fervour;

While the grave eyes greaten 5

With the wise new wonder,

Swimming in a love-mist

Like the haze of Autumn;

From that throat, the throbbing

Nightingale’s for pleading, 10

Wayward, soft, and welling

Inarticulate love-notes,

Come the words that bubble

Up through broken laughter,

Sweeter than spring-water, 15

“Gods, I am so happy!”

XXIX

Ah, what am I but a torrent,

Headstrong, impetuous, broken,

Like the spent clamour of waters

In the blue canyon?

Ah, what art thou but a fern-frond, 5

Wet with blown spray from the river,

Diffident, lovely, sequestered,

Frail on the rock-ledge?

Yet, are we not for one brief day,

While the sun sleeps on the mountain, 10

Wild-hearted lover and loved one,

Safe in Pan’s keeping?

XXX

Love shakes my soul, like a mountain wind

Falling upon the trees,

When they are swayed and whitened and bowed

As the great gusts will.

I know why Daphne sped through the grove 5

When the bright god came by,

And shut herself in the laurel’s heart

For her silent doom.

Love fills my heart, like my lover’s breath

Filling the hollow flute, 10

Till the magic wood awakes and cries

With remembrance and joy.

Ah, timid Syrinx, do I not know

Thy tremor of sweet fear?

For a beautiful and imperious player 15

Is the lord of life.

XXXI

Love, let the wind cry

On the dark mountain,

Bending the ash-trees

And the tall hemlocks,

With the great voice of 5

Thunderous legions,

How I adore thee.

Let the hoarse torrent

In the blue canyon,

Murmuring mightily 10

Out of the grey mist

Of primal chaos,

Cease not proclaiming

How I adore thee.

Let the long rhythm 15

Of crunching rollers,

Breaking and bellowing

On the white seaboard,

Titan and tireless,

Tell, while the world stands, 20

How I adore thee.

Love, let the clear call

Of the tree-cricket,

Frailest of creatures,

Green as the young grass, 25

Mark with his trilling

Resonant bell-note,

How I adore thee.

Let the glad lark-song

Over the meadow, 30

That melting lyric

Of molten silver,

Be for a signal

To listening mortals,

How I adore thee. 35

But more than all sounds,

Surer, serener,

Fuller with passion

And exultation,

Let the hushed whisper 40

In thine own heart say,

How I adore thee.

XXXII

Heart of mine, if all the altars

Of the ages stood before me,

Not one pure enough nor sacred

Could I find to lay this white, white

Rose of love upon. 5

I who am not great enough to

Love thee with this mortal body

So impassionate with ardour,

But oh, not too small to worship

While the sun shall shine,— 10

I would build a fragrant temple

To thee, in the dark green forest,

Of red cedar and fine sandal,

And there love thee with sweet service

All my whole life long. 15

I would freshen it with flowers,

And the piney hill-wind through it

Should be sweetened with soft fervours

Of small prayers in gentle language

Thou wouldst smile to hear. 20

And a tinkling Eastern wind-bell,

With its fluttering inscription,

From the rafters with bronze music

Should retard the quiet fleeting

Of uncounted hours. 25

And my hero, while so human,

Should be even as the gods are,

In that shrine of utter gladness,

With the tranquil stars above it

And the sea below. 30

XXXIII

Never yet, love, in earth’s lifetime,

Hath any cunningest minstrel

Told the one seventh of wisdom,

Ravishment, ecstasy, transport,

Hid in the hue of the hyacinth’s 5

Purple in springtime.

Not in the lyre of Orpheus,

Not in the songs of Musæus,

Lurked the unfathomed bewitchment

Wrought by the wind in the grasses, 10

Held by the rote of the sea-surf,

In early summer.

Only to exquisite lovers,

Fashioned for beauty’s fulfilment,

Mated as rhythm to reed-stop 15

Whence the wild music is moulded,

Ever appears the full measure

Of the world’s wonder.

XXXIV

“Who was Atthis?” men shall ask,

When the world is old, and time

Has accomplished without haste

The strange destiny of men.

Haply in that far-off age 5

One shall find these silver songs,

With their human freight, and guess

What a lover Sappho was.

XXXV

When the great pink mallow

Blossoms in the marshland,

Full of lazy summer

And soft hours,

Then I hear the summons 5

Not a mortal lover

Ever yet resisted,

Strange and far.

In the faint blue foothills,

Making magic music, 10

Pan is at his love-work

On the reeds.

I can guess the heart-stop,

Fall and lull and sequence,

Full of grief for Syrinx 15

Long ago.

Then the crowding madness,

Wild and keen and tender,

Trembles with the burden

Of great joy. 20

Nay, but well I follow,

All unskilled, that fluting.

Never yet was reed-nymph

Like to thee.

XXXVI

When I pass thy door at night

I a benediction breathe:

“Ye who have the sleeping world

In your care,

“Guard the linen sweet and cool, 5

Where a lovely golden head

With its dreams of mortal bliss

Slumbers now!”

XXXVII

Well I found you in the twilit garden,

Laid a lover’s hand upon your shoulder,

And we both were made aware of loving

Past the reach of reason to unravel,

Or the much desiring heart to follow. 5

There we heard the breath among the grasses

And the gurgle of soft-running water,

Well contented with the spacious starlight,

The cool wind’s touch and the deep blue distance,

Till the dawn came in with golden sandals. 10

XXXVIII

Will not men remember us

In the days to come hereafter,—

Thy warm-coloured loving beauty

And my love for thee?

Thou, the hyacinth that grows 5

By a quiet-running river;

I, the watery reflection

And the broken gleam.

XXXIX

I grow weary of the foreign cities,

The sea travel and the stranger peoples.

Even the clear voice of hardy fortune

Dares me not as once on brave adventure.

For the heart of man must seek and wander, 5

Ask and question and discover knowledge;

Yet above all goodly things is wisdom,

And love greater than all understanding.

So, a mariner, I long for land-fall,—

When a darker purple on the sea-rim, 10

O’er the prow uplifted, shall be Lesbos

And the gleaming towers of Mitylene.

XL

Ah, what detains thee, Phaon,

So long from Mitylene,

Where now thy restless lover

Wearies for thy coming?

A fever burns me, Phaon; 5

My knees quake on the threshold,

And all my strength is loosened,

Slack with disappointment.

But thou wilt come, my Phaon,

Back from the sea like morning, 10

To quench in golden gladness

The ache of parted lovers.

XLI

Phaon, O my lover,

What should so detain thee,

Now the wind comes walking

Through the leafy twilight?

All the plum-leaves quiver 5

With the coolth and darkness,

After their long patience

In consuming ardour.

And the moving grasses

Have relief; the dew-drench 10

Comes to quell the parching

Ache of noon they suffered.

I alone of all things

Fret with unsluiced fire.

And there is no quenching 15

In the night for Sappho,

Since her lover Phaon

Leaves her unrequited.

XLII

O heart of insatiable longing,

What spell, what enchantment allures thee

Over the rim of the world

With the sails of the sea-going ships?

And when the rose-petals are scattered 5

At dead of still noon on the grass-plot,

What means this passionate grief,—

This infinite ache of regret?

XLIII

Surely somehow, in some measure,

There will be joy and fulfilment,—

Cease from this throb of desire,—

Even for Sappho!

Surely some fortunate hour 5

Phaon will come, and his beauty

Be spent like water to plenish

Need of that beauty!

Where is the breath of Poseidon,

Cool from the sea-floor with evening? 10

Why are Selene’s white horses

So long arriving?

XLIV

O but my delicate lover,

Is she not fair as the moonlight?

Is she not supple and strong

For hurried passion?

Has not the god of the green world, 5

In his large tolerant wisdom,

Filled with the ardours of earth

Her twenty summers?

Well did he make her for loving;

Well did he mould her for beauty; 10

Gave her the wish that is brave

With understanding.

“O Pan, avert from this maiden

Sorrow, misfortune, bereavement,

Harm, and unhappy regret,” 15

Prays one fond mortal.

XLV

Softer than the hill-fog to the forest

Are the loving hands of my dear lover,

When she sleeps beside me in the starlight

And her beauty drenches me with rest.

As the quiet mist enfolds the beech-trees, 5

Even as she dreams her arms enfold me,

Half awaking with a hundred kisses

On the scarlet lily of her mouth.

XLVI

I seek and desire,

Even as the wind

That travels the plain

And stirs in the bloom

Of the apple-tree. 5

I wander through life,

With the searching mind

That is never at rest,

Till I reach the shade

Of my lover’s door. 10

XLVII

Like torn sea-kelp in the drift

Of the great tides of the sea,

Carried past the harbour-mouth

To the deep beyond return,

I am buoyed and borne away 5

On the loveliness of earth,

Little caring, save for thee,

Past the portals of the night.

XLVIII

Fine woven purple linen

I bring thee from Phocæa,

That, beauty upon beauty,

A precious gift may cover

The lap where I have lain. 5

And a gold comb, and girdle,

And trinkets of white silver,

And gems are in my sea-chest,

Lest poor and empty-handed

Thy lover should return. 10

And I have brought from Tyre

A Pan-flute stained vermilion,

Wherein the gods have hidden

Love and desire and longing,

Which I shall loose for thee. 15

XLIX

When I am home from travel,

My eager foot will stay not

Until I reach the threshold

Where I went forth from thee.

And there, as darkness gathers 5

In the rose-scented garden,

The god who prospers music

Shall give me skill to play.

And thou shalt hear, all startled,

A flute blown in the twilight, 10

With the soft pleading magic

The green wood heard of old.

Then, lamp in hand, thy beauty

In the rose-marble entry!

And unreluctant Hermes 15

Shall give me words to say.

L

When I behold the pharos shine

And lay a path along the sea,

How gladly I shall feel the spray,

Standing upon the swinging prow;

And question of my pilot old, 5

How many watery leagues to sail

Ere we shall round the harbour reef

And anchor off the wharves of home!

LI

Is the day long,

O Lesbian maiden,

And the night endless

In thy lone chamber

In Mitylene? 5

All the bright day,

Until welcome evening

When the stars kindle

Over the harbour,

What tasks employ thee? 10

Passing the fountain

At golden sundown,

One of the home-going

Traffickers, hast thou

Thought of thy lover? 15

Nay, but how far

Too brief will the night be,

When I returning

To the dear portal

Hear my own heart beat! 20

LII

Lo, on the distance a dark blue ravine,

A fold in the mountainous forests of fir,

Cleft from the sky-line sheer down to the shore!

Above are the clouds and the white, pealing gulls,

At its foot is the rough broken foam of the sea, 5

With ever anon the long deep muffled roar,—

A sigh from the fitful great heart of the world.

Then inland just where the small meadow begins,

Well bulwarked with boulders that jut in the tide,

Lies safe beyond storm-beat the harbour in sun. 10

See where the black fishing-boats, each at its buoy,

Ride up on the swell with their dare-danger prows,

To sight o’er the sea-rim what venture may come!

And look, where the narrow white streets of the town

Leap up from the blue water’s edge to the wood, 15

Scant room for man’s range between mountain and sea,

And the market where woodsmen from over the hill

May traffic, and sailors from far foreign ports

With treasure brought in from the ends of the earth.

And see the third house on the left, with that gleam 20

Of red burnished copper—the hinge of the door

Whereat I shall enter, expected so oft

(Let love be your sea-star!), to voyage no more.

LIII

Art thou the top-most apple

The gatherers could not reach,

Reddening on the bough?

Shall not I take thee?

Art thou a hyacinth blossom 5

The shepherds upon the hills

Have trodden into the ground?

Shall not I lift thee?

Free is the young god Eros,

Paying no tribute to power, 10

Seeing no evil in beauty,

Full of compassion.

Once having found the beloved,

However sorry or woeful,

However scornful of loving, 15

Little it matters.

LIV

How soon will all my lovely days be over,

And I no more be found beneath the sun,—

Neither beside the many-murmuring sea,

Nor where the plain-winds whisper to the reeds,

Nor in the tall beech-woods among the hills 5

Where roam the bright-lipped Oreads, nor along

The pasture-sides where berry-pickers stray

And harmless shepherds pipe their sheep to fold!

For I am eager, and the flame of life

Burns quickly in the fragile lamp of clay. 10

Passion and love and longing and hot tears

Consume this mortal Sappho, and too soon

A great wind from the dark will blow upon me,

And I be no more found in the fair world,

For all the search of the revolving moon 15

And patient shine of everlasting stars.

LV

Soul of sorrow, why this weeping?

What immortal grief hath touched thee

With the poignancy of sadness,—

Testament of tears?

Have the high gods deigned to show thee 5

Destiny, and disillusion

Fills thy heart at all things human,

Fleeting and desired?

Nay, the gods themselves are fettered

By one law which links together 10

Truth and nobleness and beauty,

Man and stars and sea.

And they only shall find freedom

Who with courage rise and follow

Where love leads beyond all peril, 15

Wise beyond all words.

LVI

It never can be mine

To sit in the door in the sun

And watch the world go by,

A pageant and a dream;

For I was born for love, 5

And fashioned for desire,

Beauty, passion, and joy,

And sorrow and unrest;

And with all things of earth

Eternally must go, 10

Daring the perilous bourn

Of joyance and of death,

A strain of song by night,

A shadow on the hill,

A hint of odorous grass, 15

A murmur of the sea.

LVII

Others shall behold the sun

Through the long uncounted years,—

Not a maid in after time

Wise as thou!

For the gods have given thee

Their best gift, an equal mind 5

That can only love, be glad,

And fear not.

LVIII

Let thy strong spirit never fear,

Nor in thy virgin soul be thou afraid.

The gods themselves and the almightier fates

Cannot avail to harm

With outward and misfortunate chance 5

The radiant unshaken mind of him

Who at his being’s centre will abide,

Secure from doubt and fear.

His wise and patient heart shall share

The strong sweet loveliness of all things made, 10

And the serenity of inward joy

Beyond the storm of tears.

LIX

Will none say of Sappho,

Speaking of her lovers,

And the love they gave her,—

Joy and days and beauty,

Flute-playing and roses, 5

Song and wine and laughter,—

Will none, musing, murmur,

“Yet, for all the roses,

All the flutes and lovers,

Doubt not she was lonely 10

As the sea, whose cadence

Haunts the world for ever.”

LX

When I have departed,

Say but this behind me,

“Love was all her wisdom,

All her care.

“Well she kept love’s secret,— 5

Dared and never faltered,—

Laughed and never doubted

Love would win.

“Let the world’s rough triumph

Trample by above her, 10

She is safe forever

From all harm.

“In a land that knows not

Bitterness nor sorrow,

She has found out all 15

Of truth at last.”

LXI

There is no more to say now thou art still,

There is no more to do now thou art dead,

There is no more to know now thy clear mind

Is back returned unto the gods who gave it.

Now thou art gone the use of life is past, 5

The meaning and the glory and the pride,

There is no joyous friend to share the day,

And on the threshold no awaited shadow.

LXII

Play up, play up thy silver flute;

The crickets all are brave;

Glad is the red autumnal earth

And the blue sea.

Play up thy flawless silver flute; 5

Dead ripe are fruit and grain.

When love puts on his scarlet coat,

Put off thy care.

LXIII

A beautiful child is mine,

Formed like a golden flower,

Cleis the loved one.

And above her I value

Not all the Lydian land, 5

Nor lovely Hellas.

LXIV

Ah, but now henceforth

Only one meaning

Has life for me.

Only one purport,

Measure and beauty, 5

Has the bright world.

What mean the wood-winds,

Colour and morning,

Bird, stream, and hill?

And the brave city 10

With its enchantment?

Thee, only thee!

LXV

Softly the wind moves through the radiant morning,

And the warm sunlight sinks into the valley,

Filling the green earth with a quiet joyance,

Strength, and fulfilment.

Even so, gentle, strong and wise and happy, 5

Through the soul and substance of my being,

Comes the breath of thy great love to me-ward,

O thou dear mortal.

LXVI

What the west wind whispers

At the end of summer,

When the barley harvest

Ripens to the sickle,

Who can tell? 5

What means the fine music

Of the dry cicada,

Through the long noon hours

Of the autumn stillness,

Who can say? 10

How the grape ungathered

With its bloom of blueness

Greatens on the trellis

Of the brick-walled garden,

Who can know? 15

Yet I, too, am greatened,

Keep the note of gladness,

Travel by the wind’s road,

Through this autumn leisure,—

By thy love. 20

LXVII

Indoors the fire is kindled;

Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone;

Cold are the chattering oak-leaves;

And the ponds frost-bitten.

Softer than rainfall at twilight, 5

Bringing the fields benediction

And the hills quiet and greyness,

Are my long thoughts of thee.

How should thy friend fear the seasons?

They only perish of winter 10

Whom Love, audacious and tender,

Never hath visited.

LXVIII

You ask how love can keep the mortal soul

Strong to the pitch of joy throughout the years.

Ask how your brave cicada on the bough

Keeps the long sweet insistence of his cry;

Ask how the Pleiads steer across the night 5

In their serene unswerving mighty course;

Ask how the wood-flowers waken to the sun,

Unsummoned save by some mysterious word;

Ask how the wandering swallows find your eaves

Upon the rain-wind with returning spring; 10

Ask who commands the ever-punctual tide

To keep the pendulous rhythm of the sea;

And you shall know what leads the heart of man

To the far haven of his hopes and fears.

LXIX

Like a tall forest were their spears,

Their banners like a silken sea,

When the great host in splendour passed

Across the crimson sinking sun.

And then the bray of brazen horns 5

Arose above their clanking march,

As the long waving column filed

Into the odorous purple dusk.

O lover, in this radiant world

Whence is the race of mortal men, 10

So frail, so mighty, and so fond,

That fleets into the vast unknown?

LXX

My lover smiled, “O friend, ask not

The journey’s end, nor whence we are.

That whistling boy who minds his goats

So idly in the grey ravine,

“The brown-backed rower drenched with spray, 5

The lemon-seller in the street,

And the young girl who keeps her first

Wild love-tryst at the rising moon,—

“Lo, these are wiser than the wise.

And not for all our questioning 10

Shall we discover more than joy,

Nor find a better thing than love!

“Let pass the banners and the spears,

The hate, the battle, and the greed;

For greater than all gifts is peace, 15

And strength is in the tranquil mind.”

LXXI

Ye who have the stable world

In the keeping of your hands.

Flocks and men, the lasting hills,

And the ever-wheeling stars;

Ye who freight with wondrous things 5

The wide-wandering heart of man

And the galleon of the moon,

On those silent seas of foam;

Oh, if ever ye shall grant

Time and place and room enough 10

To this fond and fragile heart

Stifled with the throb of love,

On that day one grave-eyed Fate,

Pausing in her toil, shall say,

“Lo, one mortal has achieved 15

Immortality of love!”

LXXII

I heard the gods reply:

“Trust not the future with its perilous chance;

The fortunate hour is on the dial now.

“To-day be wise and great,

And put off hesitation and go forth 5

With cheerful courage for the diurnal need.

“Stout be the heart, nor slow

The foot to follow the impetuous will,

Nor the hand slack upon the loom of deeds.

“Then may the Fates look up 10

And smile a little in their tolerant way,

Being full of infinite regard for men.”

LXXIII

The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough,

The blue smoke over the hill,

And the shadows trailing the valley-side,

Make up the autumn day.

Ah, no, not half! Thou art not here 5

Under the bronze beech-leaves,

And thy lover’s soul like a lonely child

Roams through an empty room.

LXXIV

If death be good,

Why do the gods not die?

If life be ill,

Why do the gods still live?

If love be naught, 5

Why do the gods still love?

If love be all,

What should men do but love?

LXXV

Tell me what this life means,

O my prince and lover,

With the autumn sunlight

On thy bronze-gold head?

With thy clear voice sounding 5

Through the silver twilight,—

What is the lost secret

Of the tacit earth?

LXXVI

Ye have heard how Marsyas,

In the folly of his pride,

Boasted of a matchless skill,—

When the great god’s back was turned;

How his fond imagining 5

Fell to ashes cold and grey,

When the flawless player came

In serenity and light.

So it was with those I loved

In the years ere I loved thee. 10

Many a saying sounds like truth,

Until Truth itself is heard.

Many a beauty only lives

Until Beauty passes by,

And the mortal is forgot 15

In the shadow of the god.

LXXVII

Hour by hour I sit,

Watching the silent door.

Shadows go by on the wall,

And steps in the street.

Expectation and doubt 5

Flutter my timorous heart.

So many hurrying home—

And thou still away.

LXXVIII

Once in the shining street,

In the heart of a seaboard town,

As I waited, behold, there came

The woman I loved.

As when, in the early spring, 5

A daffodil blooms in the grass,

Golden and gracious and glad,

The solitude smiled.

LXXIX

How strange is love, O my lover!

With what enchantment and power

Does it not come upon mortals,

Learned or heedless!

How far away and unreal, 5

Faint as blue isles in a sunset

Haze-golden, all else of life seems,

Since I have known thee!

LXXX

How to say I love you:

What, if I but live it,

Were the use in that, love?

Small, indeed.

Only, every moment 5

Of this waking lifetime

Let me be your lover

And your friend!

Ah, but then, as sure as

Blossom breaks from bud-sheath, 10

When along the hillside

Spring returns,

Golden speech should flower

From the soul so cherished,

And the mouth your kisses 15

Filled with fire.

LXXXI

Hark, love, to the tambourines

Of the minstrels in the street,

And one voice that throbs and soars

Clear above the clashing time!

Some Egyptian royal love-lilt, 5

Some Sidonian refrain,

Vows of Paphos or of Tyre,

Mount against the silver sun.

Pleading, piercing, yet serene,

Vagrant in a foreign town, 10

From what passion was it born,

In what lost land over sea?

LXXXII

Over the roofs the honey-coloured moon,

With purple shadows on the silver grass,

And the warm south-wind on the curving sea,

While we two, lovers past all turmoil now,

Watch from the window the white sails come in, 5

Bearing what unknown ventures safe to port!

So falls the hour of twilight and of love

With wizardry to loose the hearts of men,

And there is nothing more in this great world

Than thou and I, and the blue dome of dusk. 10

LXXXIII

In the quiet garden world,

Gold sunlight and shadow leaves

Flicker on the wall.

And the wind, a moment since,

With rose-petals strewed the path 5

And the open door.

Now the moon-white butterflies

Float across the liquid air,

Glad as in a dream;

And, across thy lover’s heart, 10

Visions of one scarlet mouth

With its maddening smile.

LXXXIV

Soft was the wind in the beech-trees;

Low was the surf on the shore;

In the blue dusk one planet

Like a great sea-pharos shone.

But nothing to me were the sea-sounds, 5

The wind and the yellow star,

When over my breast the banner

Of your golden hair was spread.

LXXXV

Have you heard the news of Sappho’s garden,

And the Golden Rose of Mitylene,

Which the bending brown-armed rowers lately

Brought from over sea, from lonely Pontus?

In a meadow by the river Halys, 5

Where some wood-god hath the world in keeping,

On a burning summer noon they found her,

Lovely as a Dryad, and more tender.

Her these eyes have seen, and not another

Shall behold, till time takes all things goodly, 10

So surpassing fair and fond and wondrous,—

Such a slave as, worth a great king’s ransom,

No man yet of all the sons of mortals

But would lose his soul for and regret not;

So hath Beauty compassed all her children 15

With the cords of longing and desire.

Only Hermes, master of word music,

Ever yet in glory of gold language

Could ensphere the magical remembrance

Of her melting, half sad, wayward beauty, 20

Or devise the silver phrase to frame her,

The inevitable name to call her,

Half a sigh and half a kiss when whispered,

Like pure air that feeds a forge’s hunger.

Not a painter in the Isles of Hellas 25

Could portray her, mix the golden tawny

With bright stain of poppies, or ensanguine

Like the life her darling mouth’s vermilion,

So that, in the ages long hereafter,

When we shall be dust of perished summers, 30

Any man could say who found that likeness,

Smiling gently on it, “This was Gorgo!”

LXXXVI

Love is so strong a thing,

The very gods must yield,

When it is welded fast

With the unflinching truth.

Love is so frail a thing, 5

A word, a look, will kill.

Oh lovers, have a care

How ye do deal with love.

LXXXVII

Hadst thou, with all thy loveliness, been true,

Had I, with all my tenderness, been strong,

We had not made this ruin out of life,

This desolation in a world of joy,

My poor Gorgo. 5

Yet even the high gods at times do err;

Be therefore thou not overcome with woe,

But dedicate anew to greater love

An equal heart, and be thy radiant self

Once more, Gorgo. 10

LXXXVIII

As, on a morn, a traveller might emerge

From the deep green seclusion of the hills,

By a cool road through forest and through fern,

Little frequented, winding, followed long

With joyous expectation and day-dreams, 5

And on a sudden, turning a great rock

Covered with frondage, dark with dripping water,

Behold the seaboard full of surf and sound,

With all the space and glory of the world

Above the burnished silver of the sea,— 10

Even so it was upon that first spring day

When time, that is a devious path for men,

Led me all lonely to thy door at last;

And all thy splendid beauty, gracious and glad,

(Glad as bright colour, free as wind or air, 15

And lovelier than racing seas of foam)

Bore sense and soul and mind at once away

To a pure region where the gods might dwell,

Making of me, a vagrant child before,

A servant of joy at Aphrodite’s will. 20

LXXXIX

Where shall I look for thee,

Where find thee now,

O my lost Atthis?

Storm bars the harbour,

And snow keeps the pass 5

In the blue mountains.

Bitter the wind whistles,

Pale is the sun,

And the days shorten.

Close to the hearthstone, 10

With long thoughts of thee,

Thy lonely lover

Sits now, remembering

All the spent hours

And thy fair beauty. 15

Ah, when the hyacinth

Wakens with spring,

And buds the laurel,

Doubt not, some morning

When all earth revives, 20

Hearing Pan’s flute-call

Over the river-beds,

Over the hills,

Sounding the summons,

I shall look up and behold 25

In the door,

Smiling, expectant,

Loving as ever

And glad as of old,

My own lost Atthis! 30

XC

A sad, sad face, and saddest eyes that ever

Beheld the sun,

Whence came the grief that makes of all thy beauty

One sad sweet smile?

In this bright portrait, where the painter fixed them, 5

I still behold

The eyes that gladdened, and the lips that loved me,

And, gold on rose,

The cloud of hair that settles on one shoulder

Slipped from its vest. 10

I almost hear thy Mitylenean love-song

In the spring night,

When the still air was odorous with blossoms,

And in the hour

Thy first wild girl’s-love trembled into being, 15

Glad, glad and fond.

Ah, where is all that wonder? What god’s malice

Undid that joy

And set the seal of patient woe upon thee,

O my lost love? 20

XCI

Why have the gods in derision

Severed us, heart of my being?

Where have they lured thee to wander,

O my lost lover?

While now I sojourn with sorrow, 5

Having remorse for my comrade,

What town is blessed with thy beauty,

Gladdened and prospered?

Nay, who could love as I loved thee,

With whom thy beauty was mingled 10

In those spring days when the swallows

Came with the south wind?

Then I became as that shepherd

Loved by Selene on Latmus,

Once when her own summer magic 15

Took hold upon her

With a sweet madness, and thenceforth

Her mortal lover must wander

Over the wide world for ever,

Like one enchanted. 20

XCII

Like a red lily in the meadow grasses,

Swayed by the wind and burning in the sunlight,

I saw you, where the city chokes with traffic,

Bearing among the passers-by your beauty,

Unsullied, wild, and delicate as a flower. 5

And then I knew, past doubt or peradventure,

Our loved and mighty Eleusinian mother

Had taken thought of me for her pure worship,

And of her favour had assigned my comrade

For the Great Mysteries,—knew I should find you 10

When the dusk murmured with its new-made lovers,

And we be no more foolish but wise children,

And well content partake of joy together,

As she ordains and human hearts desire.

XCIII

When in the spring the swallows all return,

And the bleak bitter sea grows mild once more,

With all its thunders softened to a sigh;

When to the meadows the young green comes back,

And swelling buds put forth on every bough, 5

With wild-wood odours on the delicate air;

Ah, then, in that so lovely earth wilt thou

With all thy beauty love me all one way,

And make me all thy lover as before?

Lo, where the white-maned horses of the surge, 10

Plunging in thunderous onset to the shore,

Trample and break and charge along the sand!

XCIV

Cold is the wind where Daphne sleeps,

That was so tender and so warm

With loving,—with a loveliness

Than her own laurel lovelier.

Now pipes the bitter wind for her, 5

And the snow sifts about her door,

While far below her frosty hill

The racing billows plunge and boom.

XCV

Hark, where Poseidon’s

White racing horses

Trample with tumult

The shelving seaboard!

Older than Saturn, 5

Older than Rhea,

That mournful music,

Falling and surging

With the vast rhythm

Ceaseless, eternal, 10

Keeps the long tally

Of all things mortal.

How many lovers

Hath not its lulling

Cradled to slumber

With the ripe flowers, 15

Ere for our pleasure

This golden summer

Walked through the corn-lands

In gracious splendour! 20

How many loved ones

Will it not croon to,

In the long spring-days

Through coming ages,

When all our day-dreams 25

Have been forgotten,

And none remembers

Even thy beauty!

They too shall slumber

In quiet places, 30

And mighty sea-sounds

Call them unheeded.

XCVI

Hark, my lover, it is spring!

On the wind a faint far call

Wakes a pang within my heart,

Unmistakable and keen.

At the harbour mouth a sail 5

Glimmers in the morning sun,

And the ripples at her prow

Whiten into crumbling foam,

As she forges outward bound

For the teeming foreign ports. 10

Through the open window now,

Hear the sailors lift a song!

In the meadow ground the frogs

With their deafening flutes begin,—

The old madness of the world 15

In their golden throats again.

Little fifers of live bronze,

Who hath taught you with wise lore

To unloose the strains of joy,

When Orion seeks the west? 20

And you feathered flute-players,

Who instructed you to fill

All the blossomy orchards now

With melodious desire?

I doubt not our father Pan 25

Hath a care of all these things.

In some valley of the hills

Far away and misty-blue,

By quick water he hath cut

A new pipe, and set the wood 30

To his smiling lips, and blown,

That earth’s rapture be restored.

And those wild Pandean stops

Mark the cadence life must keep.

O my lover, be thou glad; 35

It is spring in Hellas now.

XCVII

When the early soft spring wind comes blowing

Over Rhodes and Samos and Miletus,

From the seven mouths of Nile to Lesbos,

Freighted with sea-odours and gold sunshine,

What news spreads among the island people 5

In the market-place of Mitylene,

Lending that unwonted stir of gladness

To the busy streets and thronging doorways?

Is it word from Ninus or Arbela,

Babylon the great, or Northern Imbros? 10

Have the laden galleons been sighted

Stoutly labouring up the sea from Tyre?

Nay, ’tis older news that foreign sailor

With the cheek of sea-tan stops to prattle

To the young fig-seller with her basket 15

And the breasts that bud beneath her tunic,

And I hear it in the rustling tree-tops.

All this passionate bright tender body

Quivers like a leaf the wind has shaken,

Now love wanders through the aisles of springtime. 20

XCVIII

I am more tremulous than shaken reeds,

And love has made me like the river water.

Thy voice is as the hill-wind over me,

And all my changing heart gives heed, my lover.

Before thy least lost murmur I must sigh, 5

Or gladden with thee as the sun-path glitters.

XCIX

Over the wheat-field,

Over the hill-crest,

Swoops and is gone

The beat of a wild wing,

Brushing the pine-tops, 5

Bending the poppies,

Hurrying Northward

With golden summer.

What premonition,

O purple swallow, 10

Told thee the happy

Hour of migration?

Hark! On the threshold

(Hush, flurried heart in me!),

Was there a footfall? 15

Did no one enter?

Soon will a shepherd

In rugged Dacia,

Folding his gentle

Ewes in the twilight, 20

Lifting a level

Gaze from the sheepfold,

Say to his fellows,

“Lo, it is springtime.”

This very hour 25

In Mitylene,

Will not a young girl

Say to her lover,

Lifting her moon-white

Arms to enlace him, 30

Ere the glad sigh comes,

“Lo, it is lovetime!”

C

Once more the rain on the mountain,

Once more the wind in the valley,

With the soft odours of springtime

And the long breath of remembrance,

O Lityerses! 5

Warm is the sun in the city.

On the street corners with laughter

Traffic the flower-girls. Beauty

Blossoms once more for thy pleasure

In many places. 10

Gentlier now falls the twilight,

With the slim moon in the pear-trees;

And the green frogs in the meadows

Blow on shrill pipes to awaken

Thee, Lityerses. 15

Gladlier now crimson morning

Flushes fair-built Mitylene,—

Portico, temple, and column,—

Where the young garlanded women

Praise thee with singing. 20

Ah, but what burden of sorrow

Tinges their slow stately chorus,

Though spring revisits the glad earth?

Wilt thou not wake to their summons,

O Lityerses? 25

Shall they then never behold thee,—

Nevermore see thee returning

Down the blue cleft of the mountains,

Nor in the purple of evening

Welcome thy coming? 30

Nevermore answer thy glowing

Youth with their ardour, nor cherish

With lovely longing thy spirit,

Nor with soft laughter beguile thee,

O Lityerses? 35

Heedless, assuaged, art thou sleeping

Where the spring sun cannot find thee,

Nor the wind waken, nor woodlands

Bloom for thy innocent rapture

Through golden hours? 40

Hast thou no passion nor pity

For thy deserted companions?

Never again will thy beauty

Quell their desire nor rekindle,

O Lityerses? 45

Nay, but in vain their clear voices

Call thee. Thy sensitive beauty

Is become part of the fleeting

Loveliness, merged in the pathos

Of all things mortal. 50

In the faint fragrance of flowers,

On the sweet draft of the sea-wind,

Linger strange hints now that loosen

Tears for thy gay gentle spirit,

O Lityerses! 55

EPILOGUE

Now the hundred songs are made,

And the pause comes. Loving Heart,

There must be an end to summer,

And the flute be laid aside.

On a day the frost will come, 5

Walking through the autumn world,

Hushing all the brave endeavour

Of the crickets in the grass.

On a day (Oh, far from now!)

Earth will hear this voice no more; 10

For it shall be with thy lover

As with Linus long ago.

All the happy songs he wrought

From remembrance soon must fade,

As the wash of silver moonlight 15

From a purple-dark ravine.

Frail as dew upon the grass

Or the spindrift of the sea,

Out of nothing they were fashioned

And to nothing must return. 20

Nay, but something of thy love,

Passion, tenderness, and joy,

Some strange magic of thy beauty,

Some sweet pathos of thy tears,

Must imperishably cling 25

To the cadence of the words,

Like a spell of lost enchantments

Laid upon the hearts of men.

Wild and fleeting as the notes

Blown upon a woodland pipe, 30

They must haunt the earth with gladness

And a tinge of old regret.

For the transport in their rhythm

Was the throb of thy desire,

And thy lyric moods shall quicken 35

Souls of lovers yet unborn.

When the golden days arrive,

With the swallow at the eaves,

And the first sob of the south-wind

Sighing at the latch with spring, 40

Long hereafter shall thy name

Be recalled through foreign lands,

And thou be a part of sorrow

When the Linus songs are sung.

PRINTED AT THE DE LA MORE PRESS 32 GEORGE STREET HANOVER SQUARE LONDON W

[Illustration: The King’s Classics]

CHATTO AND WINDUS

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A CONCISE LIST OF THE KING’S CLASSICS

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ALTHOUGH The King’s Classics are to be purchased for ⅙ net per volume, the series is unique in that

(1) the letterpress, paper, and binding are unapproached by any

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(2) “Competent scholars in every case have supervised this series,

which can therefore be received with confidence.”—Athenæum,

(3) With few exceptions, the volumes in this series are included in no similar series, while several are copyright.

THE KING’S CLASSICS

UNDER THE GENERAL EDITORSHIP OF PROFESSOR I. GOLLANCZ, LITT.D.

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“We note with pleasure that competent scholars in every case have supervised this Series, which can therefore be received with confidence.”—Athenæum.

The Series of “King’s Classics,” issued under the General Editorship of Professor I. GOLLANCZ, aims at introducing to the larger reading public many noteworthy works of literature not readily accessible in cheap form, or not hitherto rendered into English. Each volume is edited by some expert scholar, and has a summary introduction dealing with the main and essential facts of the literary history of the book; at the end there are the necessary notes for a right understanding of references and textual difficulties; where necessary, there is also a carefully-compiled index. As will be at once seen from the accompanying list, much original and new work has been secured for the Series, and it will be recognised that the “King’s Classics” differentiate themselves in a very marked way from the many reprints of popular books.

It should be noted, however, that while primarily rare masterpieces are included in the “King’s Classics,” modern popular classics, more especially such as have not yet been adequately or at all annotated, are not excluded from the Series.

* * * * *

NOTE.—At the date of this list, May 1, 1907, Nos. 1-35 were published.

Numbers subsequent to 35 are at press or about to go to press.

The “King’s Classics” are printed on antique laid paper, 16mo. (6 X 4½ inches), gilt tops, and are issued in the following styles and prices. Each volume has a frontispiece, usually in photogravure.

Quarter bound, antique grey boards, ⅙ net.

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Quarter Vellum, grey cloth sides, 2/6 net.

Special three-quarter Vellum, Oxford side-papers, gilt tops, silk

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***Nos. 2, 20 and 24 are double volumes. Price, Boards or Cloth, 3/-

net; Quarter Vellum, 5/- net; special three-quarter Vellum, 7/6 net.

1. THE LOVE OF BOOKS: being the Philobiblon of RICHARD DE BURY.

Translated by E.C. THOMAS. Frontispiece, Seal of Richard de Bury (as

Bishop of Durham).

3. THE CHRONICLE OF JOCELIN OF BRAKELOND, MONK OF ST. EDMUNDSBURY: a Picture of Monastic and Social Life in the XIIth Century.

Newly translated, from the original Latin, with notes, table of dates

relating to the Abbey of St. Edmundsbury, and index, by L.C. JANE,

M.A., sometime Exhibitioner in Modern History at University College,

Oxon., and with an Introduction by the Right Rev. Abbot GASQUET.

Frontispiece, Seal of Abbot Samson (A.D. 1200).

***20. THE NUN’S RULE, or Ancren Riwle, in Modern English.

Being the injunctions of Bishop Poore intended for the guidance of nuns or anchoresses, as set forth in the famous thirteenth-century MS. referred to above.

Editor, the Right Rev. Abbot GASQUET. Frontispiece, Seal of Bishop

Poore.

Double volume.

17. MEDIÆVAL, LORE.

From Bartholomæus Anglicus. Edited with notes, index and glossary by ROBERT STEELE. Preface by the late WILLIAM MORRIS. Frontispiece, an old illumination, representing Astrologers using Astrolabes.

[The book is drawn from one of the most widely-read works of mediæval times. Its popularity is explained by its scope, which comprises explanations of allusions to natural objects met with in Scripture and elsewhere. It was, in fact, an account of the properties of things in general.]

11. THE ROMANCE OF FULK FITZWARINE.

Newly translated from the Anglo-French by ALICE KEMP-WELCH, with an introduction by Professor BRANDIN. Frontispiece, Whittington Castle in Shropshire, the seat of the Fitzwarines.

45. THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Newly translated from the old French by Mrs. CROSLAND. Introduction by

Professor BRANDIN, University of London. Frontispiece.

22. EARLY LIVES OF CHARLEMAGNE.

Translated and edited by A.J. GRANT. With frontispiece representing an early bronze figure of Charlemagne from the Musée Carnavalet, Paris.

We have here given us two “Lives” of Charlemagne by contemporary authorities—one by Eginhard and the other by the Monk of St. Gall. Very different in style, when brought together in one volume each supplies the deficiencies of the other.

35. WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG.

Mediæval students’ songs, translated from the Latin, with an essay, by

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. Frontispiece after a fifteenth-century woodcut.

18. THE VISION OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN.

By WILLIAM LANGLAND; in modern English by Professor SKEAT, Litt.D.

Frontispiece, “God Speed the Plough,” from an old MS.

8. CHAUCER’S KNIGHT’S TALE, or Palamon and Arcite.

In modern English by Professor SKEAT, Litt.D. Frontispiece, “The Canterbury Pilgrims,” from an illuminated MS.

9. CHAUCER’S MAN OF LAW’S TALE, Squire’s Tale, and Nun’s Priest’s Tale.

In modern English by Professor SKEAT, Litt.D. Frontispiece from an illuminated MS.

10. CHAUCER’S PRIORESS’S TALE, Pardoner’s Tale, Clerk’s Tale, and Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale.

In modern English by Professor SKEAT, Litt.D. Frontispiece, “The Patient Griselda,” from the well-known fifteenth-century picture of the Umbrian School in the National Gallery.

41. CHAUCER’S LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN.

In modern English, with notes and introduction, by Professor W.W. SKEAT, Litt.D. Frontispiece, “Ariadne Deserted,” after the painting by ANGELICA KAUFMANN.

36, 37. GEORGE PETTIE’S “PETITE PALACE OF PETTIE HIS PLEASURE.”

The popular Elizabethan book containing twelve classical love-stories— “Sinorex and Camma,” “Tereus and Progne,” etc.—in style the precursor of Euphues, now first reprinted under the editorship of Professor I. GOLLANCZ. Frontispieces, a reproduction of the original title, and of an original page.

In two volumes.

21. THE MEMOIRS OF ROBERT CARY, Earl of Monmouth.

Being a contemporary record of the life of that nobleman as Warden of the Marches and at the Court of Elizabeth.

Editor, G.H. POWELL. With frontispiece from the original edition, representing Queen Elizabeth in a state procession, with the Earl of Monmouth and others in attendance.

19. THE GULL’S HORNBOOK.

By THOMAS DEKKER. Editor, R.B. MCKERROW. Frontispiece, The nave of St.

Paul’s Cathedral at the time of Elizabeth.

29. SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS.

Editor, C.C. STOPES. Frontispiece, Portrait of the Earl of Southampton.

4. THE LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE, Knight.

By his son-in-law, WILLIAM ROPER. With letters to and from his famous daughter, Margaret Roper. Frontispiece, Portrait of Sir Thomas More, after Holbein.

33. THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOMAS MORE. By ANNE MANNING. Preface by RICHARD GARNETT. Frontispiece, “The Family of Sir Thomas More.”

40. SIR THOMAS MORE’S UTOPIA.

Now for the first time edited from the first edition by ROBERT STEELE. Frontispiece, Portrait of Sir Thomas More, after an early engraving.

44. THE FOUR LAST THINGS, together with the Life of Pico della Mirandola and the English Poems.

By Sir THOMAS MORE. Edited by DANIEL O’CONNOR. Frontispiece after two designs from the “Daunce of Death.”

43. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE’S ESSAY ON GARDENS, together with other Carolean Essays on Gardens.

Edited, and with notes and introduction, by A. FORBES SIEVEKING, F.S.A. Frontispiece, Portrait of Sir William Temple, and five reproductions of early “garden” engravings.

5. EIKON BASILIKE: or, The King’s Book.

Edited by EDWARD ALMACK, F.S.A. Frontispiece, Portrait of King Charles I. This edition, which has been printed from an advance copy of the King’s Book seized by Cromwell’s soldiers, is the first inexpensive one for a hundred years in which the original spelling of the first edition has been preserved.

6, 7. KINGS’ LETTERS.

Part I. Letters of the Kings of England, from Alfred to the Coming of the Tudors, newly edited from the originals by ROBERT STEELE, F.S.A. Frontispiece, Portrait of Henry V.

Part II. From the Early Tudors, with the love-letters of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, and with frontispiece, Portrait of Anne Boleyn.

Parts III. and IV., bringing the series up to modern times, will shortly be announced under the same editorship.

39. THE ROYAL POETS OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.

Being Original Poems by English Kings and other Royal and Noble

Persons, now first collected and edited by W. BAILEY-KEMPLING.

Frontispiece, Portrait of King James I. of Scotland, after an early

engraving.

13. THE LIFE OF MARGARET GODOLPHIN.

By JOHN EVELYN, the famous diarist. Re-edited from the edition of

Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford. Frontispiece, Portrait of

Margaret Godolphin engraved on copper.

15. THE FALSTAFF LETTERS.

Editor, JAMES WHITE, possibly with the assistance of CHARLES LAMB, cf. the Introduction. Frontispiece, Sir John Falstaff dancing to Master Brooks’ fiddle, from the original edition.

14. EARLY LIVES OF DANTE.

Comprising Boccaccio’s Life of Dante, Leonardo Bruni’s Life of Dante, and other important contemporary records.

Translated and edited by the Rev. PHILIP H. WICKSTEED. Frontispiece,

The Death-mask of Dante.

46. DANTE’S VITA NUOVA.

The Italian text with D.G. ROSSETTI’S translation on the opposite page.

Introduction and notes by Professor H. OELSNER Ph.D., Lecturer in

Romance Literature, Oxford University. Frontispiece after the original

water-colour sketch for “Dante’s Dream,” by D.G. ROSSETTI.

12. THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.

From “The Golden Ass” of Apuleius, translated by W. ADLINGTON (1566), edited by W.H.D. ROUSE, Litt.D. With frontispiece representing the “Marriage of Cupid and Psyche,” after a gem now in the British Museum.

23. CICERO’S “FRIENDSHIP,” “OLD AGE,” AND “SCIPIO’S DREAM.”

From early translations. Editor, W.H.D. ROUSE, Litt.D. Frontispiece,

“Scipio, Laelius and Cato conversing,” from a fourteenth-century MS.

***2. SIX DRAMAS OF CALDERON.

Translated by EDWARD FITZGERALD. Editor, H. OELSNER, M.A., Ph.D.

Frontispiece, Portrait of Calderon, from an etching by M. EGUSQUIZA.

Double volume.

42. SWIFT’S BATTLE OF THE BOOKS.

Edited, and with notes and introduction. Frontispiece.

38. WALPOLE’S CASTLE OF OTRANTO.

The introduction of Sir WALTER SCOTT. Preface by Miss C. SPURGEON.

Frontispiece, Portrait of Walpole, after a contemporary engraving.

30. GEORGE ELIOT’S SILAS MARNER.

Frontispiece, Portrait of George Eliot, from a water-colour drawing by

Mrs. CHARLES BRAY. Introduction by RICHARD GARNETT.

31. GOLDSMITH’S VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

Introduction by RICHARD GARNETT. Frontispiece, Portrait of Oliver

Goldsmith.

32. PEG WOFFINGTON.

By CHARLES READE. Frontispiece, Portrait of Peg Woffington.

Introduction by RICHARD GARNETT.

16. POLONIUS, a Collection of Wise Saws and Modern Instances.

By EDWARD FITZGERALD. With portrait of Edward FitzGerald from the miniature by Mrs. E.M.B. RIVETT-CARNAC as frontispiece; notes and index. Contains a preface by EDWARD FITZGERALD, on Aphorisms generally.

***24. WORDSWORTH’S PRELUDE.

The introduction and notes have been written by W. BASIL WORSFOLD,

M.A., and the frontispiece is taken from the portrait of Wordsworth

by H.W. PICKERSGILL, R.A., in the National Gallery. A map of the Lake

District is added.

Double volume.

25. THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE and other Poems by WILLIAM MORRIS.

Editor, ROBERT STEELE. With reproduction of DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI’S picture of “Lancelot and Guenevere at King Arthur’s tomb” as frontispiece.

26, 27. BROWNING’S “MEN AND WOMEN.”

Edited with introduction and notes by W. BASIL WORSFOLD, M.A. Two volumes, each with portrait of Browning as frontispiece.

In two volumes.

28. POE’S POEMS.

Editor, EDWARD HUTTON. Frontispiece, Poe’s cottage.

34. SAPPHO: One Hundred Lyrics By BLISS CARMAN, With frontispiece after a Greek gem.

To be continued.

NOTE.—At the date of this list, May 1, 1907, Nos. 1-35 were published. Numbers subsequent to 35 are at press or about to go to press_.

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THE SHAKESPEARE CLASSICS

A Series of volumes of reprints, under the general editorship of Professor I. GOLLANCZ, embodying the Romances, Novels, and Plays used by Shakespeare as the direct sources and originals of his plays. 6½ x 5¼ inches, gilt tops, in the following styles. Each volume will contain a photogravure frontispiece reproduction of the original title. Publication of Nos. 1 and 2 in June; No. 3 in September, and thereafter at short intervals.

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FIRST VOLUMES

1. LODGE’S “ROSALYNDE”: the original of Shakespeare’s “As You Like It.”

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2. GREENE’S “DORASTUS AND FAWNIA”: the original of Shakespeare’s “Winter’s Tale.”

Edited by P.G. THOMAS, Professor of English Literature, Bedford

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3. BROOKE’S POEM OF “ROMEUS AND JULIET”: the original of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” as edited by P.A. DANIEL, modernised and re-edited by J.J. MUNRO.

4. “THE TROUBLESOME REIGN OF KING JOHN”: the Play rewritten by Shakespeare as “King John.”

Edited by F.J. FURNIVALL, D. Litt.

5, 6. “THE HISTORY OF HAMLET.” Together with other Documents illustrative of the source of Shakespeare’s play, and an Introductory Study of the Legend of Hamlet by Professor I. GOLLANCZ, Litt.D., who also edits the work. (NOTE.—No. 6 will fill 2 volumes.)

7. “THE PLAY OF KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS”: the old play on the subject of King Lear.

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Table of Contents

“SAPPHO WHO BROKE OFF A FRAGMENT OF HER SOUL FOR US TO GUESS AT.”

INTRODUCTION

CONTENTS

SAPPHO I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

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X

XI

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LXXIII

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LXXVII

LXXVIII

LXXIX

LXXX

LXXXI

LXXXII

LXXXIII

LXXXIV

LXXXV

LXXXVI

LXXXVII

LXXXVIII

LXXXIX

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XCVIII

XCIX

C

EPILOGUE

PRINTED AT THE DE LA MORE PRESS 32 GEORGE STREET HANOVER SQUARE LONDON W

A CONCISE LIST OF THE KING’S CLASSICS

THE KING’S CLASSICS

17. MEDIÆVAL, LORE.

11. THE ROMANCE OF FULK FITZWARINE.

45. THE SONG OF ROLAND.

22. EARLY LIVES OF CHARLEMAGNE.

35. WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG.

18. THE VISION OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN.

41. CHAUCER’S LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN.

19. THE GULL’S HORNBOOK.

29. SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS.

40. SIR THOMAS MORE’S UTOPIA.

39. THE ROYAL POETS OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND.

13. THE LIFE OF MARGARET GODOLPHIN.

15. THE FALSTAFF LETTERS.

14. EARLY LIVES OF DANTE.

46. DANTE’S VITA NUOVA.

12. THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.

23. CICERO’S “FRIENDSHIP,” “OLD AGE,” AND “SCIPIO’S DREAM.”

***2. SIX DRAMAS OF CALDERON.

42. SWIFT’S BATTLE OF THE BOOKS.

38. WALPOLE’S CASTLE OF OTRANTO.

30. GEORGE ELIOT’S SILAS MARNER.

31. GOLDSMITH’S VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

32. PEG WOFFINGTON.

***24. WORDSWORTH’S PRELUDE.

28. POE’S POEMS.

CHATTO AND WINDUS, 111 ST. MARTIN’S LANE, LONDON, W.C.

THE SHAKESPEARE CLASSICS

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE