Phaon
And heal long-wasting tears. But these soft lips
Were made not for the touch of mold.
Sappho
Were made not for the touch of mold. Time was
I thought Death stern, and scattered at his door
My dearest roses, that his feet might come
And softly go.
Phaon
And softly go. This body white was made
Not for the grave,—this flashing wonder of
The hand for hungry worms!
Sappho
The hand for hungry worms! Oh, quiet as
Soft rain on water shall it seem, and sad
Only as life’s most dulcet music is,
And dark as but a bride’s first dreaded night
Is dark; mild, mild as mirrored stars!
Is dark; mild, mild as mirrored stars! But you,—
You will forget me, Phaon; there, the sting,
The sorrow of the grave is not its green
And the salt tear upon its violet;
But the long years that bring the gray neglect,
When the glad grasses smooth the little mound,—
When leaf by leaf the tree of sorrow wanes
And on the urn unseen the tarnish comes,
And tears are not so bitter as they were.
Time sings so low to our bereavèd ears,—
So softly breathes, that, bud by falling bud,
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