XIII
Sweet Sappho, that hast gather'd purple flowers,
And with thy fingers twin'd their fragrant bloom
Into a wreath none else may wear but thee,
Wear yet thy crown, though time has broken it;
Wear yet thy crown, though some white flowers have fall'n
Thy fever'd fingers wound in with the red;
Oblivion now, with his insatiable wave,
Has wash'd them far from thy feet where they fell.
Still through the ages' night, through that deep gloom,
The crown of our bright heavens is ever lov'd:
Thy glowing wreath eternally doth sway
The wondrous magic of some far pale star;
Till scatter'd lights, fill'd out by yearning eyes,
Make thy few petals seem a perfect crown.
And with thy fingers twin'd their fragrant bloom
Into a wreath none else may wear but thee,
Wear yet thy crown, though time has broken it;
Wear yet thy crown, though some white flowers have fall'n
Thy fever'd fingers wound in with the red;
Oblivion now, with his insatiable wave,
Has wash'd them far from thy feet where they fell.
Still through the ages' night, through that deep gloom,
The crown of our bright heavens is ever lov'd:
Thy glowing wreath eternally doth sway
The wondrous magic of some far pale star;
Till scatter'd lights, fill'd out by yearning eyes,
Make thy few petals seem a perfect crown.
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