Sara Teasdale (Mrs. Filsinger), who has been called one of the best of contemporary lyric poets and who is an ardent admirer of Sappho, has written the following striking lyric in the Sapphic stanza: THE LAMP If I can bear your love like a lamp before me, When I go down the long steep Road of Darkness, I shall not fear the everlasting shadows, Nor cry in terror. If I can find out God, then I shall find Him; If none can find Him, then I shall sleep soundly, Knowing how well on earth your love sufficed me, A lamp in darkness. Marion Mills Miller[182] has written some good Sapphics, though his theory of the proper rendition of Sapphic metre will cause some controversy among scholars. We have not the space here to discuss the history of the Sapphic metre, which if not first used by Sappho was first perfected by her. It has been employed extensively in all ages. Horace has it some twenty-six times. Elizabethan renderings can be found in Robinson Ellis’ preface to his translation of Catullus. By Rhabanus (766-856) it was fitted to hymns such as those for the _Feast of St. John the Baptist_, for Candlemas, Michaelmas, and for the Feast of St. Benedict, and it was employed for his hymns in the _Common of Confessors_ and the _Common of Virgins_. But no one else has ever caught the Sapphic rhythm and melody so well as Swinburne in his early poem called _Sapphics_: All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron Stood and beheld me. ... Saw the reluctant Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, Looking always, looking with necks reverted, Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder Shone Mitylene; ... Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion! All the Loves wept, listening; sick with anguish, Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo; Fear was upon them, While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine were silent, None endured the sound of her song for weeping; Laurel by laurel. Faded all their crowns; but about her forehead, Round her woven tresses and ashen temples White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, Ravaged with kisses, Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite Paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song, Yea, by her name too Called her, saying, ‘Turn to me, O my Sappho;’ Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids, Heard not about her ... Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, Hearing, to hear them.