Midnight, and in the darkness not a sound; So, with hushed breathing, sleeps the autumn night. Only the white immortal stars shall know, Here in the house by the low-lintelled door, How for the last time I have lit the lamp. I think you are not wholly careless now, Walls, that have sheltered me so many an hour, Bed, that has brought me ecstasy and sleep, Floors, that have borne me when a gale of joy Lifted my soul and made me half a god. Farewell; across the threshold many feet Shall pass, but never Sappho’s feet again. Girls shall come in whom love has made aware Of all their swaying beauty--they shall sing, But never Sappho’s voice like golden fire Shall seek for heaven thro’ your echoing rafters; There shall be sparrows bringing back the spring Over the long blue meadows of the sea, And south wind playing on the reeds of rain, But never Sappho’s whisper in the night, Never her love-cry when the lover comes. Farewell, I close the door and make it fast. * * * * * The little street lies meek beneath the moon, Running, as rivers run, to meet the sea. I too go seaward and shall not return. Oh, garlands on the door-posts that I pass, Woven of asters and of autumn leaves, I make a prayer for you: Cypris, be kind, That every lover may be given love. I shall not hasten lest the paving-stones Should echo with my sandals and awake Those who are warm beneath the cloak of sleep; Lest they should rise and see me and should say: “Whither goes Sappho lonely in the night?” Whither goes Sappho? Whither all men go, But they go driven, straining back with fear, And Sappho goes as lightly as a leaf Blown from brown autumn forests to the sea. * * * * *