Читать книгу Sapphic Classics - Sappho - Страница 103

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Over the wheat-field,

Over the hill-crest,

Swoops and is gone

The beat of a wild wing,

Brushing the pine-tops, 5

Bending the poppies,

Hurrying Northward

With golden summer.

What premonition,

O purple swallow, 10

Told thee the happy

Hour of migration?

Hark! On the threshold

(Hush, flurried heart in me!),

Was there a footfall? 15

Did no one enter?

Soon will a shepherd

In rugged Dacia,

Folding his gentle

Ewes in the twilight, 20

Lifting a level

Gaze from the sheepfold,

Say to his fellows,

"Lo, it is springtime."

This very hour 25

In Mitylene,

Will not a young girl

Say to her lover,

Lifting her moon-white

Arms to enlace him, 30

Ere the glad sigh comes,

"Lo, it is lovetime!"