Ah! whatever be the month, the dove speaks truly, Cypris. And I throw my two arms about my lover, and with great tremblings, I stretch my still benumbed legs to the foot of the bed. CXLII THE RAIN OF THE MORNING The night has worn away. The stars are far away. See, the last courtesans have returned with their lovers. And I, in the rain of morning, I write this verse upon the sand. The leaves are laden with brilliant water. The rivulets across the paths drag along the earth and the dead leaves. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song. Oh! how sad and alone I am here! The young regard me not; the old have forgotten me. It is well. They will learn my verses, and the children of their children. That is what neither Myrtale nor Thais nor Glykera may say, the day when their fair cheeks deepen with wrinkles. Those who shall love after me, will sing my strophes together. CXLIII THE TRUE DEATH Aphrodite; merciless goddess, thou hast willed that, for me also, the happy youth of beautiful hair shall disappear in a few days. Why am I not dead now! I have regarded myself in my mirror: I have no longer smiles or tears. O sweet face that loved Mnasidika, I cannot believe that thou wast mine. Can it be that all is ended! I have not yet lived five times eight years; it seems to me that I was born only yesterday, and now, behold, I must say: No one will love me more. All my cut hair, I have twisted into a girdle, and I offer it to thee, Cypris eternal! I will never cease to adore thee. This is the last verse of the pious Bilitis. THE TOMB OF BILITIS FIRST EPITAPH In the country where the springs rise from the sea, and where the bed of flowers is made of leaves of rock, I, Bilitis, was born. My mother was Phœnician; my father, Damophylos, Hellene. My mother taught me the songs of Byblos, sad as the first dawn. I have adored Astarte at Cypros. I have known Psappha at Lesbos. I have sung as I have loved. If I have loved well, Passer-by, tell it to thy daughter. And sacrifice not for me a black goat; but in soft libation, press her teats above my tomb. SECOND EPITAPH Upon the sombre banks of Melos, at Tamassos of Pamphylia, I, daughter of Damophylos, Bilitis, was born. I repose far from my native land, thou seest. Even as a child, I learned the loves of Adonis and of Astarte, the mysteries of the holy Serfs, and the death and return to Her-of-the-rounded-eyes. If I have been a courtesan, what is the harm? Was it not my duty as a woman? Stranger, the Mother-of-all-things guides us. To forget her is not prudent. In gratitude to thee who hast paused, I wish thee this destiny: Mayest thou be loved, but never love. Farewell; remember thou, in thine old age, that thou hast seen my tomb.