THY FORM IS LOVELY Thy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed, O'er thy face the pale Clear light of love lies like a veil. Bidding thee rise, With outstretched hands, Before thee Aphrodite stands. LI THE BRIDEGROOM Joy born of marriage thou provest, Bridegroom thrice blest, Holding the maiden thou lovest Clasped to thy breast. LII REGRET Those unto whom I have given, These have my heart most riven. LIII FRAGMENT Upon thy girl friend's white and tender breast, Sleep thou, and on her bosom find thy rest. LIV SAPPHO TO PHAON A NEW RENDERING OF OVID'S HEROIC EPISTLE, XV. I Phaon, most lovely, closest to my heart, Can your dear eyes forget, or must I stand Confessed in name, beloved that thou art, Lost to my touch and in another land. Sappho now calls thee, lyre and Lyric Muse Forgotten, and the tears born of her wrongs Blinding her eyes, upturned but to refuse Phœbus, the fountain of all joyous songs. I burn, as when in swiftness, past the byres, Flame takes the corn, borne by the winds that blow; For what are Ætna's flames to my desires, Thou, who by Ætna wanderest, O Thou! The Lyric Muse has turned, as I from her, Peace, Peace alone can join us once again, The blue sea in its solitude lies fair, But, desolate, I turn from it in pain. No more the girls of Lesbos move my heart, My blameless love for them is now no more, Before my love for thee all loves depart, Cold wanderer thou upon a distant shore. O thou art lovely! wert thou garbed like him, Apollo by thy side a shade would be. Garland thy tresses with the ivy dim And Bacchus would be less himself, by thee. Apollo, yet, who bent, as Bacchus fell, One to the Cretan, one to Daphne's fire, Beside me, what are they? I cast my spell O'er seas and lands, the music of my lyre Echoes across the world where mortals dwell, Renders the earth in tune with my desire. Alcæus strikes Olympus with his song, Boldly and wild his music finds its star. Unto the human does my voice belong And Aphrodite smiles on me from far. Have I no charms? has genius lost her touch To turn simplicity to beauty's zone? Am I so small, whose towering height is such That in the world of men I stand alone? Yea, I am brown--an Æthiopian's face Turned Perseus from his path, a flame of fire. White doves or dark, which hath the finer grace? Are they not equal, netted by desire? If by no charm except thine own sweet charm Thou can'st be moved, ah then, alas, for me! Fires of the earth thy coldness will not warm, And Phaon's self must Phaon's lover be.