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 G.o.ds 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 h.e.l.las.

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.