With bright wings cleaving.
Soon they were sped—and thou, most blest,
In thine own smiles ambrosial dressed,
Didst ask what griefs my mind oppressed—
What meant my song—
What end my frenzied thoughts pursue—
For what loved youth I spread anew
My amorous nets—'Who, Sappho, who
'Hath done thee wrong?
'What though he fly, he'll soon return—