Why should she stop and never speak?
Why should the color in her cheek
Change, not glowing gay and meek?
Deeper, redder than I knew
She was mistress of, a hue,
Though demurely,
Richly, surely
Rising in her cheek!
Fol de rol de raly O!
The change in her cheek!
There was before us on the ground,
Eyes upon us, not a sound,
Sat a neighbor’s truant child of seven years;
Her lap was full of sunny gold,
But her eyes in the sun, her eyes were old,
Were sober, seeming laden
—And such a little maiden—
Unawares but laden
With some dead woman’s tears.
Fol de rol de raly O!
A child of seven years!
Some woman who had watched and wept
But had not any speech
Watched and wept now within that little breast,
Caught and caressed
Those little hands and would have kept
Beyond their reach
The anguish in that orchard,
The apple-bough unblessed,
The brightness that had tortured
The heart within the breast....
And we beheld, and see it even now,
A bent and withered apple-bough,
Of beauty dispossessed,
Which bore its poison long ago.
Oh, why we pluck it still we may not know,
But only that it leaves no rest
To the heart within the breast.
Fol de rol de raly O!
This heart within the breast!
Abashed and parting on our ways,
We saw that woman’s poor dead hand,
Ghostly making, its demand,
Fall pitiful and sad, ...
We saw the child, forgetful of our gaze,
Laughing like any child that plays,
And laughs in any land,
Lean and touch a toy she had
Half hidden in her hand,
We saw her pat and poise and raise—
An apple in her hand!
Fol de rol de raly O!
The apple in her hand!
Yale Review Witter Bynner
ABLUTION
Thus drowsy Atthis, laughing at my door:
“Sappho, I vow that I will kiss no more
Thy lips, and every loveliness, if thou
Shouldst still refuse to bare thy beauty now!
“O from thy bed unloosen every charm
Of all thy strength beloved in limb and arm;
And doff thy robe and bathe thee as the white
Lily that leaves the river for the light;
“And Cleis on thee, at thy glowing call,
A shimmering robe of saffron shall let fall;
And we, thy girl friends, in a vestal throng,
Shall wreathe thy hair while thirsting for thy song.”
Smart Set John Myers O’Hara