Sappho

To an army wife, in Sardis: Some say a cavalry corps, some infantry, some, again, will maintain that the swift oars of our fleet are the finest sight on dark earth; but I say that whatever one loves, is. This is easily proved: did not Helen—she who had scanned the flower of the world’s manhood— choose as first among men one who laid Troy’s honor in ruin? warped to his will, forgetting love due her own blood, her own child, she wandered far with him. So Anactoria, although you being far away forget us, the dear sound of your footstep and light glancing in your eyes would move me more than glitter of Lydian horse or armored tread of mainland infantry

I Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, Atop on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, — Forget it not, nay; but got it not, for none could get it till now. II Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound, Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.

It’s no use Mother dear, I can’t finish my weaving You may blame Aphrodite soft as she is she has almost killed me with love for that boy

I asked myself What, Sappho, can you give one who has everything, like Aphrodite?

Say what you like about Charaxos, that’s a fellow with a fat-bellied ship always in some port or other. What does Zeus care, or the rest of his gang? Now you’d like me on my knees, crying out to Hera, “Blah, blah, blah, bring him home safe and free of warts,” or blubbering, “Wah, wah, wah, thank you, thank you, for curing my liver condition.” Good grief, gods do what they like. They call down hurricanes with a whisper or send off a tsunami the way you would a love letter. If they have a whim, they make some henchmen fix it up, like those idiots in the Iliad. A puff of smoke, a little fog, away goes the hero, it’s happily ever after. As for Larichos, that lay-a-bed lives for the pillow. If for once he’d get off his ass, he might make something of himself. Then from that reeking sewer of my life I might haul up a bucket of spring water. Translated from the Greek