As wind upon the mountain oaks in storm, So Eros shakes my soul, my life, my form.
He who is fair is good to look upon; He who is good is fair, though youth be gone.
Over the fisher Pelagon Meniscus his father set The oar worn by the wave, the trap, and the fishing net;-- For all men, and for ever, memorials there to be Of the luckless life of the fisher, the labourer of the sea.
This is the dust of Tunas, who, unwed, Passed hence to Proserpina's house of gloom. In mourning all her sorrowing playmates shed Their curls and cast the tribute on her tomb.
Dead shalt thou lie for ever, and forgotten, For whom the flowers of song have never bloomed; A wanderer amidst the unbegotten, In Hades' house a shadow ay entombed.
Death is an evil, for the gods choose breath; Had Death been good the gods had chosen Death.
Seet violet-weaving Sappho, whose soft smile My tongue should free, Lo, I would speak, but shame holds me the while I gaze on thee.
Hadst thou but felt desire of noble things, Hadst not thy tongue proposed to speak no good, Thy words had not been destitute of wings, Nor shame thine eyes subdued.
Then the full globed moon arose, and there The women stood as round an altar fair.
And thus at times, in Crete, the women there Circle in dance around the altar fair; In measured movement, treading as they pass With tender feet the soft bloom of the grass.
All delicacy unto me is lovely, and for me, O Love! Thy wings are as the midday fire, Thy splendour as the sun above.
Like the sweet apple that reddens At end of the bough-- Far end of the bough-- Left by the gatherer's swaying, Forgotten, so thou. Nay, not forgotten, ungotten, Ungathered (till now).
Methinks hereafter in some later spring Echo will bear to men the songs we sing.
For thee, unto the altar will I lead A white goat-- To the altar by the sea; And there, where waves advance and waves recede, A full libation will I pour for thee.
Friend, face me so and raise Unto my face thy face, Unto mine eyes thy gaze, Unto my soul its grace.
The moon has set beyond the seas, And vanished are the Pleiades; Half the long weary night has gone, Time passes--yet I lie alone.
I think not with these two White arms to touch the blue.
Singing, O shell, divine! Let now thy voice be mine.