Like the sweet apple that reddens
At end of the bough--
Far end of the bough--
Left by the gatherer's swaying,
Forgotten, so thou.
Nay, not forgotten, ungotten,
Ungathered (till now).
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
οἶον τὸ γλυχὺμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄχρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ ἄχρον ἐπ’ ἄχροτάτῳ λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηεϛ· οὐ μὰν ἐχλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐχ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπὶχεσθαι Σαπφώ Sappho, Fragment 105a