The sea-spray nearly hides
Her small figure, a silhouette
Upon the moonlit sand;
The cresting, crashing tides
Muffle her cries of loss and despair
Along the lonely strand.

Skilled in music and the arts,
So many raised to womanhood
And then forever lost;
Mistress of their mistress’s heart,
Bartered for long-forgotten kingdoms
Again she bears the cost.

With dignity and courage, she,
The marriage-feast attends;
Whose heart would hide,
Takes the lyre upon her knee,
With clear, calm voice can
Sing the praises of the bride.

Can even the tender heart
And warm tears for you
Shed by your dearest Cleis,
Ease the pain of parting,
The emptiness of loss?
Great Sappho, be at peace.

Three thousand years or ten
Cannot mute the Aeolian Muse;
Your voice still rings today,
Outlasting the palaces of men;
The brides live still in your songs
Whose kings are dust and clay.

Copyright (C) 2001, John Bliven Morin

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