SAPPHO.
My life is bitter with thy love; thine eyes | |
Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs | |
Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound, | |
And my blood strengthens, and my veins abound. | |
I pray thee sigh not, speak not, draw not breath; | |
Let life burn down, and dream it is not death. | |
I would the sea had hidden us, the fire | |
(Wilt thou fear that, and fear not my desire?) | |
Severed the bones that bleach, the flesh that cleaves, | |
10 | And let our sifted ashes drop like leaves. |
I feel thy blood against my blood: my pain | |
Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein. | |
Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower, | |
Breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour. | |
Why wilt thou follow lesser loves? are thine | |
Too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine? | |
I charge thee for my life’s sake, O too sweet | |
To crush love with thy cruel faultless feet, | |
I charge thee keep thy lips from hers or his, | |
20 | Sweetest, till theirs be sweeter than my kiss: |
Lest I too lure, a swallow for a dove, | |
Erotion or Erinna to my love. | |
I would my love could kill thee; I am satiated | |
With seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. | |
I would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, | |
And no mouth but some serpent’s found thee sweet. | |
I would find grievous ways to have thee slain, | |
Intense device, and superflux of pain; | |
Vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake | |
30 | Life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache; |
Strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill, | |
Intolerable interludes, and infinite ill; | |
Relapse and reluctation of the breath, | |
Dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death. | |
I am weary of all thy words and soft strange ways, | |
Of all love’s fiery nights and all his days, | |
And all the broken kisses salt as brine | |
That shuddering lips make moist with waterish wine, | |
And eyes the bluer for all those hidden hours | |
40 | That pleasure fills with tears and feeds from flowers, |
Fierce at the heart with fire that half comes through, | |
But all the flowerlike white stained round with blue; | |
The fervent underlid, and that above | |
Lifted with laughter or abashed with love; | |
Thine amorous girdle, full of thee and fair, | |
And leavings of the lilies in thine hair. | |
Yea, all sweet words of thine and all thy ways, | |
And all the fruit of nights and flower of days, | |
And stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine | |
50 | That Love was born of burns and foams like wine, |
And eyes insatiable of amorous hours, | |
Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers, | |
Coloured like night at heart, but cloven through | |
Like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue, | |
Clothed with deep eyelids under and above – | |
Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love; | |
Thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair, | |
And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair. | |
Ah, take no thought for Love’s sake; shall this be, | |
60 | And she who loves thy lover not love thee? |
Sweet soul, sweet mouth of all that laughs and lives, | |
Mine is she, very mine; and she forgives. | |
For I beheld in sleep the light that is | |
In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss | |
Of body and soul that mix with eager tears | |
And laughter stinging through the eyes and ears; | |
Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet, | |
Imperishable, upon her storied seat; | |
Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south, | |
70 | A mind of many colours, and a mouth |
Of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed, | |
With all her subtle face laughing aloud, | |
Bowed down upon me, saying, ‘Who doth thee wrong, | |
Sappho?’ but thou – thy body is the song, | |
Thy mouth the music; thou art more than I, | |
Though my voice die not till the whole world die; | |
Though men that hear it madden; though love weep, | |
Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep. | |
Ah, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead? | |
80 | Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said: |
‘Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake, | |
And she shall give thee gifts that would not take, | |
Shall kiss that would not kiss thee’ (yea, kiss me) | |
‘When thou wouldst not’ – when I would not kiss thee! | |
Ah, more to me than all men as thou art, | |
Shall not my songs assuage her at the heart? | |
Ah, sweet to me as life seems sweet to death, | |
Why should her wrath fill thee with fearful breath? | |
Nay, sweet, for is she God alone? hath she | |
90 | Made earth and all the centuries of the sea, |
Taught the sun ways to travel, woven most fine | |
The moonbeams, shed the starbeams forth as wine, | |
Bound with her myrtles, beaten with her rods, | |
The young men and the maidens and the gods? | |
Have we not lips to love with, eyes for tears, | |
And summer and flower of women and of years? | |
Stars for the foot of morning, and for noon | |
Sunlight, and exaltation of the moon; | |
Waters that answer waters, fields that wear | |
100 | Lilies, and languor of the Lesbian air? |
Beyond those flying feet of fluttered doves, | |
Are there not other gods for other loves? | |
Yea, though she scourge thee, sweetest, for my sake, | |
Blossom not thorns and flowers not blood should break. | |
Ah that my lips were tuneless lips, but pressed | |
To the bruised blossom of thy scourged white breast! | |
Ah that my mouth for Muses’ milk were fed | |
On the sweet blood thy sweet small wounds had bled! | |
That with my tongue I felt them, and could taste | |
110 | The faint flakes from thy bosom to the waist! |
That I could drink thy veins as wine, and eat | |
Thy breasts like honey! that from face to feet | |
Thy body were abolished and consumed, | |
And in my flesh thy very flesh entombed! | |
Ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites, | |
Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. | |
Ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet, | |
The paces and the pauses of thy feet! | |
Ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air | |
120 | The fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair! |
Yea, though their alien kisses do me wrong, | |
Sweeter thy lips than mine with all their song; | |
Thy shoulders whiter than a fleece of white, | |
And flower-sweet fingers, good to bruise or bite | |
As honeycomb of the inmost honey-cells, | |
With almond-shaped and roseleaf-coloured shells | |
And blood like purple blossom at the tips | |
Quivering; and pain made perfect in thy lips | |
For my sake when I hurt thee; O that I | |
130 | Durst crush thee out of life with love, and die, |
Die of thy pain and my delight, and be | |
Mixed with thy blood and molten into thee! | |
Would I not plague thee dying overmuch? | |
Would I not hurt thee perfectly? not touch | |
Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright | |
Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light? | |
Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note, | |
Catch the sob’s middle music in thy throat, | |
Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these | |
140 | A lyre of many faultless agonies? |
Feed thee with fever and famine and fine drouth, | |
With perfect pangs convulse thy perfect mouth, | |
Make thy life shudder in thee and burn afresh, | |
And wring thy very spirit through the flesh? | |
Cruel? but love makes all that love him well | |
As wise as heaven and crueller than hell. | |
Me hath love made more bitter toward thee | |
Than death toward man; but were I made as he | |
Who hath made all things to break them one by one, | |
150 | If my feet trod upon the stars and sun |
And souls of men as his have alway trod, | |
God knows I might be crueller than God. | |
For who shall change with prayers or thanksgivings | |
The mystery of the cruelty of things? | |
Or say what God above all gods and years | |
With offering and blood-sacrifice of tears, | |
With lamentation from strange lands, from graves | |
Where the snake pastures, from scarred mouths of slaves, | |
From prison, and from plunging prows of ships | |
160 | Through flamelike foam of the sea’s closing lips – |
With thwartings of strange signs, and wind-blown hair | |
Of comets, desolating the dim air, | |
When darkness is made fast with seals and bars, | |
And fierce reluctance of disastrous stars, | |
Eclipse, and sound of shaken hills, and wings | |
Darkening, and blind inexpiable things – | |
With sorrow of labouring moons, and altering light | |
And travail of the planets of the night, | |
And weeping of the weary Pleiads seven, | |
170 | Feeds the mute melancholy lust of heaven? |
Is not his incense bitterness, his meat | |
Murder? his hidden face and iron feet | |
Hath not man known, and felt them on their way | |
Threaten and trample all things and every day? | |
Hath he not sent us hunger? who hath cursed | |
Spirit and flesh with longing? filled with thirst | |
Their lips who cried unto him? who bade exceed | |
The fervid will, fall short the feeble deed, | |
Bade sink the spirit and the flesh aspire, | |
180 | Pain animate the dust of dead desire, |
And life yield up her flower to violent fate? | |
Him would I reach, him smite, him desecrate, | |
Pierce the cold lips of God with human breath, | |
And mix his immortality with death. | |
Why hath he made us? what had all we done | |
That we should live and loathe the sterile sun, | |
And with the moon wax paler as she wanes, | |
And pulse by pulse feel time grow through our veins? | |
Thee too the years shall cover; thou shalt be | |
190 | As the rose born of one same blood with thee, |
As a song sung, as a word said, and fall | |
Flower-wise, and be not any more at all, | |
Nor any memory of thee anywhere; | |
For never Muse has bound above thine hair | |
The high Pierian flower whose graft outgrows | |
All summer kinship of the mortal rose | |
And colour of deciduous days, nor shed | |
Reflex and flush of heaven about thine head, | |
Nor reddened brows made pale by floral grief | |
200 | With splendid shadow from that lordlier leaf. |
Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, | |
Except these kisses of my lips on thine | |
Brand them with immortality; but me – | |
Men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea, | |
Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold | |
Cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold | |
And plumeless wings that make the bright air blind, | |
Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind | |
Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown, | |
210 | But in the light and laughter, in the moan |
And music, and in grasp of lip and hand | |
And shudder of water that makes felt on land | |
The immeasurable tremor of all the sea, | |
Memories shall mix and metaphors of me. | |
Like me shall be the shuddering calm of night, | |
When all the winds of the world for pure delight | |
Close lips that quiver and fold up wings that ache; | |
When nightingales are louder for love’s sake, | |
And leaves tremble like lute-strings or like fire; | |
220 | Like me the one star swooning with desire |
Even at the cold lips of the sleepless moon, | |
As I at thine; like me the waste white noon, | |
Burnt through with barren sunlight; and like me | |
The land-stream and the tide-stream in the sea. | |
I am sick with time as these with ebb and flow, | |
And by the yearning in my veins I know | |
The yearning sound of waters; and mine eyes | |
Burn as that beamless fire which fills the skies | |
With troubled stars and travailing things of flame; | |
230 | And in my heart the grief consuming them |
Labours, and in my veins the thirst of these, | |
And all the summer travail of the trees | |
And all the winter sickness; and the earth, | |
Filled full with deadly works of death and birth, | |
Sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, | |
Has pain like mine in her divided breath; | |
Her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit | |
Ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root | |
Fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath | |
240 | Serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth |
Made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, | |
And wild birds rend her branches overhead. | |
These, woven as raiment for his word and thought, | |
These hath God made, and me as these, and wrought | |
Song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me | |
Earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. | |
As a shed tear shalt thou be shed; but I – | |
Lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, | |
Years change and stars, and the high God devise | |
250 | New things, and old things wane before his eyes |
Who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they – | |
But, having made me, me he shall not slay. | |
Nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his | |
Who laugh and live a little, and their kiss | |
Contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, | |
And sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, | |
Love they or hate they, strive or bow their knees – | |
And all these end; he hath his will of these. | |
Yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me – | |
260 | Albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea |
And cover me with cool wan foam, and ease | |
This soul of mine as any soul of these, | |
And give me water and great sweet waves, and make | |
The very sea’s name lordlier for my sake, | |
The whole sea sweeter – albeit I die indeed | |
And hide myself and sleep and no man heed, | |
Of me the high God hath not all his will. | |
Blossom of branches, and on each high hill | |
Clean air and wind, and under in clamorous vales | |
270 | Fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, |
Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, | |
The wan washed sand and the waves’ vain desire, | |
Sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words | |
That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds | |
Violently singing till the whole world sings – | |
I Sappho shall be one with all these things, | |
With all high things for ever; and my face | |
Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, | |
Cleave to men’s lives, and waste the days thereof | |
280 | With gladness and much sadness and long love. |
Yea, they shall say, earth’s womb has borne in vain | |
New things, and never this best thing again; | |
Borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, | |
Seasons and songs, but no song more like mine. | |
And they shall know me as ye who have known me here, | |
Last year when I loved Atthis, and this year | |
When I love thee; and they shall praise me, and say | |
‘She hath all time as all we have our day, | |
Shall she not live and have her will’ – even I? | |
290 | Yea, though thou diest, I say I shall not die. |
For these shall give me of their souls, shall give | |
Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live, | |
Shall quicken me with loving, fill with breath, | |
Save me and serve me, strive for me with death. | |
Alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew | |
Nor all cold things can purge me wholly through, | |
Assuage me nor allay me nor appease, | |
Till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless ease; | |
Till time wax faint in all his periods; | |
300 | Till fate undo the bondage of the gods, |
And lay, to slake and satiate me all through, | |
Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew, | |
And shed around and over and under me | |
Thick darkness and the insuperable sea. |