‘Mon amour, je ne puis t’aimer! Le jour éclate Comme un blanc incendie, au mont des aromates! Le gazon, telle une eau, fraîchit au fond des bois; Un délire sacré m’entraîne loin de toi.’ She is relentless, and all the more relentless that she forgets nothing of their old delights. Since Sappho has any woman uttered such a burst of passion as she pours out in shameless reminiscence in the marvellous lyric entitled ‘T’aimer. Et quand le jour timide ...?’ (the day may enjoy as much timidity as it pleases; the poetess leaves all her share untouched). Here are the accents of desire, the voice of nature naked and unashamed; but it is the evocation of a love consumed and finished. The remembered flame is now a handful of ashes:-- ‘Ô cher pâtre, inquiet et désormais terni, J’ai vécu pour cela, qui est déjà fini! Is there any happiness to equal our anticipation of happiness? Only in listening to music can the wearied beauty still believe: ‘Qu’il existe un bonheur qui ressemble au désir,’ and then the melody of Schumann seems to ring with a reproach, a warning, a presentiment, a final certainty:-- ‘Je vois, là-bas, dans l’ombre dépouillée Du jardin où le vent d’automne vient gémir, Les trahisons, les pleurs, les âmes tenaillées, Le vieillesse, la mort, la terre entre-bâillée.’ At this point we lose the clue, and wander a while in the Pindaric labyrinth of lyrics. A new love, fresh, kind, and young, appears (we think) on the horizon. Mindful of her ancient rigours, our muse hesitates:-- ‘Je porte un vague amour, plus grave et plus ancien, Qui t’avait précédé et ne peut pas te suivre.’ Yet she does follow her mortal lover. And again she feels that Nature rejects her, thrusts her, with a flaming sword, forth from her Paradise into a disordered world of souls and bodies:-- ‘Tu n’es plus cette enfant, libre comme la flamme, Qui montait comme un jet de bourgeons et d’odeurs.’ This new love is of a different sort, turned towards eternity, and sometimes, as in the song called _Un Abondant Amour_ and also _Je ne puis pas comprendre, encore que tu sois né_, we feel that it is perhaps the love for a child. In any case, her passion is for some creature still innocent and tender. And this new feeling--the point of departure for the eternal life--does really estrange the poetess from her frenzied pantheism. ‘Je ne regarde plus Avec la même ardeur un monde qui m’a plu. Mon esprit tient captifs des oiseaux éternels.... Je songe au noble éclat des nuits platoniciennes.’