poet Sappho

Sappho

#137 on top 500 poets

To One Who Loved Not Poetry

THOU liest dead, and there will be no memory left behind
Of thee or thine in all the earth, for never didst thou bind
The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doom
Is now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom.

Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004

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Read poems about / on: memory, poetry, rose