V
The doves sleep beside the slow-murmuring cool fountain, red-five-petalled roses of Paestum strew the chequered marble;
A flute-girl whispers the dear white ode of Sappho, and Hierocleia by the pool
Smiles to see the smooth blue-sky-reflecting water mirror her shining body;
But my eyelids are shunned by sleep that is whiter than beautiful morning, for Konallis is not here.