Must I remind you, Cleis,

Remains a dream of loveliness–to fillMy soul, my life, at Aphrodite’s will.

can’t finish myweavingYou mayblame Aphroditesoft as she isshe has almostkilled me withlove for that boySapphotr. Barnard

O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,The greenwood through!O Forest-maidens, smite on the breast,Rend ye the delicate-woven vest!Let the wail ring wild and high:‘Ah for Adonis!’ cry.O Sappho, how canst thou chant the blissOf Kypris — after such day as this?‘Oh Adonis, thou leavest me — woe for my lot!And Eros, my…

With thy soft hands, for so a maiden standsAccepted of the gods, whose eyes divineAre turned away from her–though fair as MayShe waits, but round whose locks no flowers shine.

Girls take their placesas though around an altar

tortoise shell: becomea speaking instrument

are unbecoming ina poet’s household?and that they are notsuitable in ours?Sapphotr. Barnard

Remains a dream of loveliness–to fillMy soul, my life, at Aphrodite’s will.

For all men, and for ever, memorials there to beOf the luckless life of the fisher, the labourer of the sea.

and bittersweetthat loosenerof limbs, Lovereptile-likestrikes me down

Whose ears thy tongue’s sweet melodyMay still devour.Thou smilest too!–sweet smile, whose charmHas struck my soul with wild alarm,And, when I see thee, bids disarmEach vital power.Speechless I gaze: the flame withinRuns swift o’er all my quivering skin:My eyeballs swim; with dizzy dinMy brain reels round;And cold drops fall; and tremblings frailSeize every limb; and…

kerchief shadowedyour cheeks — the oneTimas one time sent,a timid gift, allthe way from PhocaeaSapphotr. Barnard

Anactoria will think often of usof the life we shared here, when you seemedthe Goddess incarnateto her and your singing pleased her bestNow among Lydian women she in herturn stands first as the red-fingered moon rising at sunset takesprecedence over stars around her;her light spreads equallyon the salt sea and fields thick with bloomDelicious dew…

For I no longer will abideWhere youth and age lie side by side.

With thy soft hands, for so a maiden standsAccepted of the gods, whose eyes divineAre turned away from her–though fair as MayShe waits, but round whose locks no flowers shine.

The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doomIs now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom.

daughter calledCleis, who islike a goldenflowerI wouldn’ttake all Croesus’kingdom with lovethrown in, for her—Don’t ask me what to wearI have no embroideredheadband from Sardis togive you, Cleis, such asI woreand my motheralways said that in herday a purple ribbonlooped in the hair was thoughtto be high style indeedbut we were dark:a girlwhose hair is yellower…

waiting where the grove ispleasantest, by precinctssacred to you; incensesmokes on the altar, coldstreams murmur through theapple branches, a youngrose thicket shades the groundand quivering leaves pourdown deep sleep; in meadowswhere horses have grown sleekamong spring flowers, dillscents the air. Queen! Cyprian!Fill our gold cups with lovestirred into clear nectar