LEST as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speaks and sweetly smile.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth whose eyes may look on thee,
Whose ears thy tongue's sweet melody
Yes, Atthis, you may be sure
Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us
It was you, Atthis, who said
"Sappho, if you will not get
up and let us look at you
Cytherea, thy dainty Adonis is dying!
Ah, what shall we do?
O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,
The greenwood through!
And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an
It's no use
Mother dear, I
can't finish my
I have no complaint
the golden Muses
gave me was no