Unto some a troop of triumphant horsemen, Or a radiant fleet, or a marching legion, Is the fairest sight--but to me the fairest Is my beloved. Every lover must understand my wisdom, For when Helen looked on the whole world's beauty What she chose as best was a man, her loved one, Who shamed Troy's honor. Then her little child was to her as nothing. Not her mother's tears nor her father's pleading Moved her. At Love's word, meekly she surrendered Unto this stranger. So does woman yield, valuing but little Things, however fair, that she looks at daily. So you now, Anactoria, forget her, Her, who is with you, Her, to see whose face, fairer than the sunlight, Her, to hear whose step ringing on the threshold, I'd forego the sight of the Lydian army, Bowmen and chariots. Never in this world is the best our portion, Yet there is a vague pleasure in remembrance, And to long for joy that has passed is better Than to forget it. No one would venture to criticize Mr. Edmonds's treatment of the Greek text; his ingenious additions are a distinguished, scholarly achievement. Nor can any fault be found with his prose translation of the poem. But to readers of poetry who have not that peculiar literal-mindedness which characterizes scholars his interpretation of the translated poem, his explanation of Sappho's meaning, is anything but satisfactory. It gives "point" to the piece, he says, if we imagine Anactoria to have fallen in love with a soldier. Sappho, he explains, clearly is away in exile. Anactoria and the other woman are living in the same town, presumably Mitylene. He gives this interpretation of Sappho's supposed address to Anactoria: You, who are lucky enough to be with her still, have forgotten, it seems, a friend whom I would give anything to see again. For you have fallen in love. And yet it is natural enough; and I cannot blame you. But O, that I might have the joy you are throwing away! I know it is no use wishing; but still, past delights are better missed than forgotten. Now, it is the scholars that have brought the poets into disrepute. They insist on interpreting them and in being at once too literal and too imaginative. Take, for instance, the obvious example of Shakespeare. Plays and poems written for the entertainment of the world have been twisted and tortured by erudite commentators who have seen in them supernatural prophecies, scientific treatises, political tracts, and--what is in this connection especially important--personal confessions. Mankind cannot be restrained, it seems, from the attempt to interpret all poetry as rhymed autobiography.