Then the crowding madness, Wild and keen and tender, Trembles with the burden Of great joy. 20

Nay, but well I follow, All unskilled, that fluting.

Never yet was reed-nymph Like to thee.

x.x.xVI

When I pa.s.s thy door at night I a benediction breathe: "Ye who have the sleeping world In your care,

"Guard the linen sweet and cool, 5 Where a lovely golden head With its dreams of mortal bliss Slumbers now!"

x.x.xVII

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 gra.s.ses And the gurgle of soft-running water, Well contented with the s.p.a.cious starlight, The cool wind's touch and the deep blue distance, Till the dawn came in with golden sandals. 10

x.x.xVIII

Will not men remember us In 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.

x.x.xIX

I grow weary of the foreign cities, The sea travel and the stranger peoples.

Even the clear voice of hardy fortune Dares 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 Lesbos And the gleaming towers of Mitylene.

XL

Ah, what detains thee, Phaon, So long from Mitylene, Where now thy restless lover Wearies 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 gladness The ache of parted lovers.

XLI

Phaon, O my lover, What should so detain thee,

Now the wind comes walking Through the leafy twilight?

All the plum-leaves quiver 5 With the coolth and darkness,

After their long patience In consuming ardour.

And the moving gra.s.ses Have relief; the dew-drench 10

Comes to quell the parching Ache of noon they suffered.

I alone of all things Fret with unsluiced fire.

And there is no quenching 15 In the night for Sappho,

Since her lover Phaon Leaves her unrequited.

XLII

O heart of insatiable longing, What spell, what enchantment allures thee Over the rim of the world With the sails of the sea-going ships?

And when the rose-petals are scattered 5 At dead of still noon on the gra.s.s-plot, What means this pa.s.sionate grief,-- This infinite ache of regret?

XLIII