PHAON
Must I woo thee, flower of Lesbian youth, fair-skinned and supple, insensible to love, disdainful as a god? Must Sappho sing to thee and play the man, bringing her sweetest lyrics to thy scornful loveliness?
Among these perfumed gardens where the glowing rose and hyacinth breathe out their fragrant souls, among the tinkling fountains and the olive groves, canst thou not find, within thine heart, one spark of love which I can sigh into a flame?
Alas! Thy brow is icy cold, thine hand all unresponsive to my touch. Thine eyes look far away, in pure content of Aphrodite's gift.
Why wilt thou have it so? Perhaps, in days to come, when Sappho's cithern sleeps and Sappho wanders in the twilight land, men will look back to thee and curse thy beauty that it stilled her song . . . Ah! Phaon!
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