Sounds of grief
Must I remind you, Cleis,
that sounds of grief
are unbecoming in
a poet's household?
and that they are not
suitable in ours?
Sappho
tr. Barnard
It's no use
It's no use
Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite
soft as she is
she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy
Love
Sweet mother, at the idle loom I lean,
Weary with longing for the boy that still
Remains a dream of loveliness--to fill
My soul, my life, at Aphrodite's will.
And their feet move
And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an
altar of love, crushing
a circle in the soft
smooth flowering grass
Blame Aphrodite
It's no use
Mother dear, I
can't finish my
weaving
You may
blame Aphrodite
soft as she is
she has almost
killed me with
love for that boy
Sappho
tr. Barnard
Cyprian, in my dream
Cyprian, in my dream
the folds of a purple
kerchief shadowed
your cheeks --- the one
Timas one time sent,
a timid gift, all
the way from Phocaea
Sappho
tr. Barnard
Wedding Song
Workmen lift high
The beams of the roof,
Hymenæus!
Like Ares from sky
Comes the groom to the bride,
Hymenæus!
Than men who must die
Stands he taller in pride,
Hymenæus!
Thy Form Is Lovely
Thy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed,
O'er thy face the pale
Clear light of love lies like a veil.
Bidding thee rise,
With outstretched hands,
Before thee Aphrodite stands.
Like The Sweet Apple
Like the sweet apple that reddens
At end of the bough--
Far end of the bough--
Left by the gatherer's swaying,
Forgotten, so thou.
Nay, not forgotten, ungotten,
Ungathered (till now).
My Garden
I've a garden, a garden of dreams,
Where the cool breeze whispering sways
Softly the apple-sprays,
And from leaves that shimmer and quiver
Down on mine eyelids streams
A slumber-river.