Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics Part 15

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 h.e.l.las 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 suns.h.i.+ne,

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s that bud beneath her tunic,

And I hear it in the rustling tree-tops.

All this pa.s.sionate 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, Brus.h.i.+ng 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, a.s.suaged, 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 pa.s.sion 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