Midst divine melodic voicings,
Midst delicious mute rejoicings,
Strong as when the worlds began,
Awakens Pan!
SAPPHO11
As a wan weaver in an attic dim,
Hopeless yet patient, so he may be fed
With scanty store of sorrow-seasoned bread,
Heareth a blithe bird carol over him,
And sees no longer walls and rafters grim,
But rural lanes where little feet are led
Through springing flowers, fields with clover spread,
Clouds, swan-like, that o'er depths of azure swim—
So, when upon our earth-dulled ear new breaks
Some fragment, Sappho, of thy skyey song,
A noble wonder in our souls awakes;
The deathless beautiful draws strangely nigh,
And we look up, and marvel how so long
We were content to toil for sordid joys that die.
Let me believe you, love, or let me die!
If on your faith I may not rest secure,—
Beyond all chance of peradventure sure,
Trusting your half-avowals, sweet and shy,
As trusts the lark the pallid, dawn-lit sky,
Then would I rather in some grave obscure
Repose forlorn, than, living on, endure
