Our talk seemed to unlock her heart and she burst into tears and I learned how much of a child she is. For it is still filial jealousy that makes her difficult. She cannot bear to share me with my girls, my friends, even my work.

Poor, darling Kleis, how hard it is for some of us to grow up, to learn to walk gracefully alone. I kissed and comforted her as best I could, assuring her of my love.

"There's a place for you here, Kleis. Please try to find it. I know the girls are eager to help you, if you'll let them."

She promised, but the far-away look remained in her eyes.

A thiase in Andros-the thought saddens me, for then she would be far away.

I have hurled myself into work. During long silences, while I am thinking, composing, I hear the water clock outside my door. Drop after drop, it fastens itself to my memory.

The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surf magnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a sense of abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.

Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle of the house shuts off the strongest blasts.

I have ordered everyone to work. At least they appear busy.

While the wind howled, a tempest rose in me.

I woke during the night to fight it. Yet, there it was, that perfect symmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands.

I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving toward the submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he was above me, then below me; then we were one, diving together.

I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with the wind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have never felt more deserted. Death and blindness have made my bed sterile.

Beauty, stay with me! I said.

Beauty said: Don't be afraid.

How shall I cope with this whirlwind? What does it know of surfeit, satiety?

I'm too old, compared to his twenty or twenty-two. He may have a woman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of a thing who satisfies him.

In my dream I saw him at the prow of his boat, talking with Kleis.

I should send her to Andros.

I need to go to Andros, myself!

I must seek Alcaeus...he must help me...

I see Phaon in his bed, his young arms, his young legs, his close- cropped hair, blue eyes, smooth face.

Like a storm punishing the olives, love shakes me.

I must go to sleep.

Forget!

Another letter has reached me from Aesop. Still in Adelphi, he writes he has been sick with fever.

"My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of men being mistreated. I am sick of injustice.

"As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I have spoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stare at me on the streets.

"I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice and ignorance.

There must be a better life.

"A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of all time. The ones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it to happen.

"I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulers here have friends. They know how to apply pressure.

"Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beauty foremost-I wish I could think as you think.

"Tell Alcaeus I send him my best, that I miss him..."

I took my letter to Alcaeus and read it aloud in his library.

"I'm afraid it is serious this time," I said.

"It is always serious, when we speak out," said Alcaeus, laying his palms flat on the desk.

"He says it is dangerous for him to come here."

"He must learn restraint!"

"And you, Alcaeus, do you think you have learned restraint?"

There was silence and then he said:

"Those of us who are free must speak, or there will be no freedom, no free men left to restrain those who think in terms of chains."

Sitting in the square the other day, I listened to Alcaeus speaking, excited because he had taken cudgel in hand. Blind though he is, he strikes an imposing figure, even majestic. Leaning on his cane, staring over the townsmen who crowd the forum, he looks a pillar, his head shaggy, beard glistening with oil, clothes immaculate.

Something about the day had a timeless quality, as though none of it was old, the exorbitant taxes, the stringent laws, the situation of the veteran-and the sea rolling, the gulls crying, the sun shining.

Pittakos has not shown any noticeable objection. Perhaps he remembers the youthful champion, before the exile. Then, it was not easy to ignore the charges against those in office, the outcries against "drunkards, thieves, bastards!" Now Pittakos nods and walks on his way, aware that a blind man may be an excellent orator but no longer a soldier.

And recalling the years in exile, I knew how bitter Alcaeus was. If there is less vehemence in his voice than before, there is also greater conviction.