Reckless of time, should waken not and find
Our hearts grown old, but evermore live on
As do the stars and Earth’s untroubled trees,
While seasons came, like birds, and went again,—
Though Greece and her green islands were no more,
And all her marbled glory should go down
Like flowers that die and fall, and one by one
Like lamps her lofty cities should go out.
Phaon
Your voice, like dew, falls deep in my dry heart,
And like a bell your name swings through my dreams;
Now all my being throbs and cries for you;
Come back with me; but come, and I will speak
A thousand gentle words for each poor tear
That dimmed your eyes! Come back, and I will crown
Your days with love so enduring it shall light
The eternal stars to bed!
Sappho
The eternal stars to bed! Ask me no more,—
My Phaon, you must ask me nevermore:
Though Music pipe from Memory’s darkest pine
Her tenderest note, all time her wings are torn;
The assuaging founts of tears themselves have failed.
Life to the lees I drained, and I have grown
Too lightly wayward with its wine of love,
Too sadly troubled with its wind of change,
And some keen madness burns through all my blood.
The whimpering velvet whelps of Passion once
I warmed in my white breast, and now full-grown
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