But never Sappho’s whisper in the night,
Never her love-cry when the lover comes.
Farewell, I close the door and make it fast.
* * * * *
The little street lies meek beneath the moon,
Running, as rivers run, to meet the sea.
I too go seaward and shall not return.
Oh, garlands on the door-posts that I pass,
Woven of asters and of autumn leaves,
I make a prayer for you: Cypris, be kind,