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Sappho:
One Hundred Lyrics
by
Bliss Carman
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XCIX
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OVER
the wheat-field,
Over the hill-crest,
Swoops and is gone
The beat of a wild wing,
Brushing the pine-tops, |
5 |
Bending
the poppies,
Hurrying Northward
With golden summer.
What
premonition,
O purple swallow,
|
10 |
Told
thee the happy
Hour of migration?
Hark! On the threshold
—Hush, flurried heart in me!—
Was there a footfall? |
15 |
Did
no one enter?
Soon
will a shepherd
In rugged Dacia,
Folding his gentle
Ewes in the twilight,
|
20 |
Lifting
a level
Gaze from the sheepfold,
Say to his fellows,
"Lo, it is springtime."
This
very hour
|
25 |
In Mitylene,
Will not a young girl
Say to her lover,
Lifting her moon-white
Arms to enlace him, |
30 |
Ere
the glad sigh comes,
"Lo, it is lovetime!" |
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