XCVI Hark, my lover, it is spring!

XCVII When the early soft spring-wind comes blowing

XCVIII I am more tremulous than shaken reeds

XCIX Over the wheat field

C Once more the rain on the mountain

Epilogue




SAPPHO




I


Cyprus, Paphos, or Panormus
May detain thee with their splendour
Of oblations on thine altars,
O imperial Aphrodite.

Yet do thou regard, with pity 5
For a nameless child of passion,