Читать книгу Sapphic Classics - Sappho - Страница 93

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Where shall I look for thee,

Where find thee now,

O my lost Atthis?

Storm bars the harbour,

And snow keeps the pass 5

In the blue mountains.

Bitter the wind whistles,

Pale is the sun,

And the days shorten.

Close to the hearthstone, 10

With long thoughts of thee,

Thy lonely lover

Sits now, remembering

All the spent hours

And thy fair beauty. 15

Ah, when the hyacinth

Wakens with spring,

And buds the laurel,

Doubt not, some morning

When all earth revives, 20

Hearing Pan's flute-call

Over the river-beds,

Over the hills,

Sounding the summons,

I shall look up and behold 25

In the door,

Smiling, expectant,

Loving as ever

And glad as of old,

My own lost Atthis! 30