Had Sappho's self not left her word thus long
For token,
The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song
Had spoken.


II

And yet these days of subtler air and finer
Delight,
When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner
The light--

The gift they give of all these golden hours,
Whose urn
Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers
In turn--

Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day's track
Seem living--
What were they did no spirit give them back
Thanksgiving?


III

Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, telling
Time nought;
Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling
In thought.