O heart of insatiable longing,
What spell, what enchantment allures thee
Over the rim of the world
With the sails of the sea-going ships?
And when the rose-petals are scattered 5
At dead of still noon on the grass-plot,
What means this passionate grief,—
This infinite ache of regret?
XLIII
Surely somehow, in some measure,
There will be joy and fulfilment,—
Cease from this throb of desire,—
Even for Sappho!
Surely some fortunate hour 5
Phaon will come, and his beauty
Be spent like water to plenish
Need of that beauty!
Where is the breath of Poseidon,
Cool from the sea-floor with evening? 10
Why are Selene’s white horses
So long arriving?
XLIV
O but my delicate lover,
Is she not fair as the moonlight?
Is she not supple and strong
For hurried passion?
Has not the god of the green world, 5
In his large tolerant wisdom,
Filled with the ardours of earth
Her twenty summers?
Well did he make her for loving;
Well did he mould her for beauty; 10
Gave her the wish that is brave
With understanding.