Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics (version 2) — Verses 54 to the end

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.

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