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 GLORIOLEOF EBON HAIR ON CALMED BROWS–O POET-WOMAN! NONE FORGOESTHE 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 Alcaeus, and acclaimed by her fellow craftsmen 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 friendI 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 callFrom 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 topmost 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 PanormusMay 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 valleyBy 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 AutumnPurples the earth, and the sunlight 5 Sleeps in the vineyard? Will he return when the WinterHuddles 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 littleHearten, 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 theeWith oil and honey and wheat-bread, Praying for strength and fulfilmentOf 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 yearningGreatly desiring wisdom,Come to the threshold of reason And the bright portals. * * * * * And thou, sea-born Aphrodite, 25 In whose beneficent keepingEarth, 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 enkindleThis moon-white delicate body,Drench with the dew of enchantmentThis mortal one, that I alsoGrow to the measure of beauty 35 Fleet yet eternal. V O Aphrodite,God-born and deathless,Break not my spiritWith bitter anguish:Thou wilful empress, 5 I pray thee, hither! As once aforetimeWell thou didst hearkenTo my voice far off,–Listen, and leaving 10 Thy father’s goldenHouse in yoked chariot, Come, thy fleet sparrowsBeating the mid-airOver 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 thenMost was desiring.“What fair thing wouldst thouLure 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 meFrom mordant love pain,And all my heart’s will 35 Help me accomplish! VI Peer of the gods he seems,Who in thy presenceSits and hears close to himThy silver speech-tonesAnd lovely laughter. 5 Ah, but the heart fluttersUnder my bosom,When I behold theeEven a moment;Utterance leaves me; 10 My tongue is useless;A subtle fireRuns through my body;My eyes are sightless,And my ears ringing; 15 I flush with fever,And a strong tremblingLays hold upon me;Paler than grass am I,Half dead for madness. 20 Yet must I, greatlyDaring, adore thee,As the adventurousSailor makes seawardFor the lost sky-line 25 And undiscoveredFabulous islands,Drawn by the lure ofBeauty and summerAnd 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 maidensAnd 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 forgottenThe veriest power of life. 20 “To kindle her shapely beauty,And illumine her mind withal,I give to the little personThe glowing and craving soul.” VIII Aphrodite of the foam,Who hast given all good gifts,And made Sappho at thy willLove so greatly and so much, Ah, how comes it my frail heart 5 Is so fond of all things fair,I can never choose betweenGorgo and Andromeda? IX Nay, but always and foreverLike 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 blossomTwined by thy soft hands. Whoso is crowned with flowers 5 Has favour with the gods,Who have no kindly eyesFor the ungarlanded. XI When the Cretan maidensDancing up the full moonRound some fair new altar,Trample the soft blossoms of fine grass, There is mirth among them. 5 Aphrodite’s childrenAsk her benedictionOn 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 bosomOf the tender comrade,While the living waterWhispers in the well-run,And the oleanders 5 Glimmer in the moonlight. Soon, ah, soon the shy birdsWill be at their fluting,And the morning planetRise above the garden; 10 For there is a measureSet to all things mortal. XIV Hesperus, bringing togetherAll 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 coolnessMurmurs, and the grey leaves flicker Where sleep wanders. In this garden all the hot noonI await thy fluttering footfall 5 Through the twilight. XVII Pale rose leaves have fallenIn the fountain water;And soft reedy flute-notesPierce the sultry quiet. But I wait and listen, 5 Till the trodden gravelTells me, all impatience,It is Phaon’s footstep. XVIII The courtyard of her house is wideAnd 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-treeGrowing in front of my lover’s house, And there all dayThe wind makes a pleasant sound. And when the evening comes, 5 We sit there together in the dusk, And watch the starsAppear in the quiet blue. XX I behold Arcturus going westwardDown the crowded slope of night-dark azure, While the Scorpion with red AntaresTrails 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 NaxosWith his jade flute marks the purple quiet. XXI Softly the first step of twilightFalls 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 anglesComes 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 flowerIn the broad herded meadows full of sun. And we would often at the fall of duskWander 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 meHenceforth and forever. But thou alone shalt gather 5 This fragile flower of beauty,–To crush and keep the fragranceLike a holy incense. Thou only shalt rememberThis love of mine, or hallow 10 The coming years with gladness,Calm and pride and passion. XXV It was summer when I found youIn 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, cincturedWith a linen belt, whereonViolets were wrought, and scentedWith strange perfumes out of Egypt. And I know thy foot was covered 5 With fair Lydian broidered straps;And the petals from a rose-treeFell within the marble basin. XXVII Lover, art thou of a suretyNot 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 backwardIn my arm’s safe hollow,And your face all rosyWith the mounting fervour; While the grave eyes greaten 5 With the wise new wonder,Swimming in a love-mistLike the haze of Autumn; From that throat, the throbbingNightingale’s for pleading, 10 Wayward, soft, and wellingInarticulate love-notes, Come the words that bubbleUp 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 cryOn the dark mountain,Bending the ash-treesAnd the tall hemlocks,With the great voice of 5 Thunderous legions,How I adore thee. Let the hoarse torrentIn the blue canyon,Murmuring mightily 10 Out of the grey mistOf primal chaos,Cease not proclaimingHow I adore thee. Let the long rhythm 15 Of crunching rollers,Breaking and bellowingOn the white seaboard,Titan and tireless,Tell, while the world stands, 20 How I adore thee. Love, let the clear callOf the tree-cricket,Frailest of creatures,Green as the young grass, 25 Mark with his trillingResonant bell-note,How I adore thee. Let the glad lark-songOver the meadow, 30 That melting lyricOf molten silver,Be for a signalTo listening mortals,How I adore thee. 35 But more than all sounds,Surer, serener,Fuller with passionAnd exultation,Let the hushed whisper 40 In thine own heart say,How I adore thee. XXXII Heart of mine, if all the altarsOf the ages stood before me,Not one pure enough nor sacredCould I find to lay this white, white Rose of love upon. 5 I who am not great enough toLove thee with this mortal bodySo impassionate with ardour,But oh, not too small to worship While the sun shall shine,– 10 I would build a fragrant templeTo 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 itShould 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 musicShould 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 minstrelTold 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 Musaeus,Lurked the unfathomed bewitchmentWrought 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 timeHas accomplished without hasteThe 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 mallowBlossoms in the marshland,Full of lazy summerAnd soft hours, Then I hear the summons 5 Not a mortal loverEver yet resisted,Strange and far. In the faint blue foothills,Making magic music, 10 Pan is at his love-workOn 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 burdenOf great joy. 20 Nay, but well I follow,All unskilled, that fluting.Never yet was reed-nymphLike to thee. XXXVI When I pass thy door at nightI a benediction breathe:“Ye who have the sleeping world In your care, “Guard the linen sweet and cool, 5 Where a lovely golden headWith 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 usIn 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 fortuneDares 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 LesbosAnd the gleaming towers of Mitylene. XL Ah, what detains thee, Phaon,So long from Mitylene,Where now thy restless loverWearies 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 gladnessThe ache of parted lovers. XLI Phaon, O my lover,What should so detain thee, Now the wind comes walkingThrough the leafy twilight? All the plum-leaves quiver 5 With the coolth and darkness, After their long patienceIn consuming ardour. And the moving grassesHave relief; the dew-drench 10 Comes to quell the parchingAche of noon they suffered. I alone of all thingsFret with unsluiced fire. And there is no quenching 15 In the night for Sappho, Since her lover PhaonLeaves her unrequited. XLII O heart of insatiable longing,What spell, what enchantment allures thee Over the rim of the worldWith 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 beautyBe 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 maidenSorrow, 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 kissesOn the scarlet lily of her mouth. XLVI I seek and desire,Even as the windThat travels the plainAnd stirs in the bloomOf the apple-tree. 5 I wander through life,With the searching mindThat is never at rest,Till I reach the shadeOf my lover’s door. 10 XLVII Like torn sea-kelp in the driftOf the great tides of the sea,Carried past the harbour-mouthTo 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 linenI bring thee from Phocaea,That, beauty upon beauty,A precious gift may coverThe 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-handedThy lover should return. 10 And I have brought from TyreA Pan-flute stained vermilion,Wherein the gods have hiddenLove and desire and longing,Which I shall loose for thee. 15 XLIX When I am home from travel,My eager foot will stay notUntil I reach the thresholdWhere I went forth from thee. And there, as darkness gathers 5 In the rose-scented garden,The god who prospers musicShall give me skill to play. And thou shalt hear, all startled,A flute blown in the twilight, 10 With the soft pleading magicThe green wood heard of old. Then, lamp in hand, thy beautyIn the rose-marble entry!And unreluctant Hermes 15 Shall give me words to say. L When I behold the pharos shineAnd 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 sailEre we shall round the harbour reef And anchor off the wharves of home! LI Is the day long,O Lesbian maiden,And the night endlessIn thy lone chamberIn Mitylene? 5 All the bright day,Until welcome eveningWhen the stars kindleOver the harbour,What tasks employ thee? 10 Passing the fountainAt golden sundown,One of the home-goingTraffickers, hast thouThought of thy lover? 15 Nay, but how farToo brief will the night be,When I returningTo the dear portalHear 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 appleThe gatherers could not reach,Reddening on the bough? Shall not I take thee? Art thou a hyacinth blossom 5 The shepherds upon the hillsHave 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 disillusionFills 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 freedomWho with courage rise and followWhere love leads beyond all peril, 15 Wise beyond all words. LVI It never can be mineTo sit in the door in the sunAnd 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 earthEternally must go, 10 Daring the perilous bournOf 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 sunThrough the long uncounted years,– Not a maid in after time Wise as thou! For the gods have given theeTheir 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 himWho 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 joyBeyond 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 cadenceHaunts 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 triumphTrample by above her, 10 She is safe forever From all harm. “In a land that knows notBitterness 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 valueNot all the Lydian land, 5 Nor lovely Hellas. LXIV Ah, but now henceforthOnly one meaningHas 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 whispersAt the end of summer,When the barley harvestRipens to the sickle, Who can tell? 5 What means the fine musicOf the dry cicada,Through the long noon hoursOf the autumn stillness, Who can say? 10 How the grape ungatheredWith its bloom of bluenessGreatens on the trellisOf 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 benedictionAnd 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 filedInto the odorous purple dusk. O lover, in this radiant worldWhence 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 notThe journey’s end, nor whence we are. That whistling boy who minds his goatsSo 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 worldIn the keeping of your hands.Flocks and men, the lasting hills,And the ever-wheeling stars; Ye who freight with wondrous things 5
