Xli

Phaon, O my lover, What should so detain thee,

Now the wind comes walking Through the leafy twilight?

All the plum-leaves quiver With the coolth and darkness,

After their long patience In consuming ardour.

And the moving grasses Have relief; the dew-drench

Comes to quell the parching Ache of noon they suffered.

I alone of all things Fret with unsluiced fire.

And there is no quenching In the night for Sappho,

Since her lover Phaon Leaves her unrequited.