And all the summer travail of the trees And all the winter sickness; and the earth, Filled full with deadly works of death and birth, Sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, Has pain like mine in her divided breath; Her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit Ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root Fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath Serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth Made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, And wild birds rend her branches overhead. These, woven as raiment for his word and thought, These hath God made, and me as these, and wrought Song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me Earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. As a shed tear shalt thou be shed; but I-- Lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, Years change and stars, and the high God devise New things, and old things wane before his eyes Who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they-- But, having made me, me he shall not slay. Nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his Who laugh and live a little, and their kiss Contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, And sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, Love they or hate they, strive or bow their knees-- And all these end; he hath his will of these. Yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me-- Albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea And cover me with cool wan foam, and ease This soul of mine as any soul of these, And give me water and great sweet waves, and make The very sea's name lordlier for my sake, The whole sea sweeter--albeit I die indeed And hide myself and sleep and no man heed, Of me the high God hath not all his will. Blossom of branches, and on each high hill Clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales Fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, The wan washed sand and the waves' vain desire, Sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds Violently singing till the whole world sings-- I Sappho shall be one with all these things, With all high things for ever; and my face Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, Cleave to men's lives, and waste the days thereof With gladness and much sadness and long love. Yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain New things, and never this best thing again; Borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, Seasons and songs, but no song more like mine. And they shall know me as ye who have known me here, Last year when I loved Atthis, and this year When I love thee; and they shall praise me, and say "She hath all time as all we have our day, Shall she not live and have her will"--even I? Yea, though thou diest, I say I shall not die. For these shall give me of their souls, shall give Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live,