Quite humble have I been, and duly spake
My lips as you once tutored them to speak.
But now this empty husk from which you drained
Life’s darkest wine shall die in its own way,
And whither now it will this thing you hurt
Shall steal away, for all its broken wings.
And now, as waters sigh and whisper through
Some hollow-throated urn, so peace this day
Shall steal thro’ all my veins, as I have said.
So back! Stand back,—or if it must be, then
Locked desperately arm in arm with me
You shall go down, down to this crawling Deep!
from her in fear.)
Phaon
Madness throbs thro’ her, and I fear this mood.
Sappho
The waves are softer with their dead, and winds
More kindly are with leaves in winter than
Men’s cruel love, that kills and buries not!
Naked and torn we lie beneath their feet,
Who, had they known, in sorrow would have crept
Thro’ grief’s entombing night with what once held
Such joys and tears for them!
singing through the twilight:)
O that sound, not wind or sea,
From no bird nor dreamland blown,
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