Liv

How soon will all my lovely days be over, And I no more be found beneath the sun,— Neither beside the many-murmuring sea, Nor where the plain-winds whisper to the reeds, Nor in the tall beech-woods among the hills Where roam the bright-lipped Oreads, nor along The pasture-sides where berry-pickers stray And harmless shepherds pipe their sheep to fold!

For I am eager, and the flame of life Burns quickly in the fragile lamp of clay. Passion and love and longing and hot tears Consume this mortal Sappho, and too soon A great wind from the dark will blow upon me, And I be no more found in the fair world, For all the search of the revolving moon And patient shine of everlasting stars.