When Sappho sang for many a year,
And great Apollo’s self the while,
Ceased from the lyre and bent to hear?
The titles to his heart so near,
His lineage, who can now repeat?
Yet she escaped oblivion drear
Who said that love is “bitter-sweet.”
And who by wealth or selfish guile
became the island’s proudest peer?
What siren with voluptuous wile