The doves sleep beside the slow-murmuring cool fountain, red-five-petalled roses of Paestum strew the chequered marble; A flute-girl whispers the dear white ode of Sappho, and Hierocleia by the pool Smiles to see the smooth blue-sky-reflecting water mirror her shining body; But my eyelids are shunned by sleep that is whiter than beautiful morning, for Konallis is not here. VI O reeds, move softly and make keen bewildering music, For I fear lest Arkadian Pan should seize Myrrhine as she comes from the city; O Artemis, shed thy light across the peaks to hasten her coming, But do thou, Eos, hold back thy white radiance till love be content. VII Last night Zeus sent swift rain upon the blue-grey rocks, But Konallis held me close to her pear-pointed breasts. VIII Sappho, Sappho, long ago the dust of earth mingled with the dust of thy dear limbs, And only little clay figures, painted with Tyrian red, with crocus, and with Lydian gold, Remain to show thy beauty; but thy wild lovely songs shall last for ever. Soon we too shall join Anaktoria and Kudno and kiss thy pale shadowy fingers. IX When Myrrhine departed I, weeping passionately, kissed her golden-wrought knees, saying: “O, Myrrhine, by what god shall I keep the memory of thy caresses?” But she, bending down like golden, smiling Aphrodite, whispered to me; And lying here in the sunlight among the reeds I remember her words. X Hierocleia, do thou weave white-violet-crowns and spread mountain-haunting lilies upon my couch, For Konallis comes! and shut the door against the young men for this is a sharper love. XI This is the feast of Iacchus; open wide the gates, O Hierocleia; Fill the kraters and kuathoi with sweet unmixed wine and snow; bring thyrsus-wands, And crowns of pale ivy and violets; let the flute-players begin the phallic hymn While the ten girl-slaves, drunken with the god, dance to the young men. XII Hedulia now lies with Myrrhine who aforetime was my lover, But seeing Hedulia she forgot me, and I lie on the threshold weeping. O marble threshold, thou are not so white nor so hard as her breasts, receive my tears While the mute stars turn overhead and the owls cry from the cypresses. XIII Wandering in tears about the city I came to the dark temple of Priapus; The tall, naked, scented-tressed priestesses taught me the mysteries, And I lay between Guathina and Leuke and afterwards Chrusea and Anthea; But now I worship the god on the mountain slopes, yet not unforgetful of Myrrhine.