Читать книгу Sapphic Classics - Sappho - Страница 39

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When the great pink mallow

Blossoms in the marshland,

Full of lazy summer

And soft hours,

Then I hear the summons 5

Not a mortal lover

Ever yet resisted,

Strange and far.

In the faint blue foothills,

Making magic music, 10

Pan is at his love-work

On the reeds.

I can guess the heart-stop,

Fall and lull and sequence,

Full of grief for Syrinx 15

Long ago.

Then the crowding madness,

Wild and keen and tender,

Trembles with the burden

Of great joy. 20

Nay, but well I follow,

All unskilled, that fluting.

Never yet was reed-nymph

Like to thee.