Читать книгу The Song Maker - A Collection of Poems - Sara Teasdale - Страница 13

ERINNA

They sent you in to say farewell to me,

No, do not shake your head; I see your eyes

That shine with tears. Sappho, you saw the sun

Just now when you came hither, and again,

When you have left me, all the shimmering

Great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun

Put round about you warm invisible arms

As might a lover, decking you with light.

I go toward darkness tho' I lie so still.

If I could see the sun, I should look up

And drink the light until my eyes were blind;

I should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass,

And I should call the birds with such a voice,

With such a longing, tremulous and keen,

That they would fly to me and on the breast

Bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields

The kiss I gave them.

Sappho, tell me this,

Was I not sometimes fair? My eyes, my mouth,

My hair that loved the wind, were they not worth

The breath of love upon them? Yet he passed,

And he will pass to-night when all the air

Is blue with twilight; but I shall not see.

I shall have gone forever. Hold my hands,

Hold fast that Death may never come between;

Swear by the gods you will not let me go;

Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love—

But you will not assuage him. He alone

Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.

I am afraid, afraid.

Sappho, lean down.

Last night the fever gave a dream to me,

It takes my life and gives a little dream.

I thought I saw him stand, the man I love,

Here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes

Fixed on me as I entered, while he drew

Silently toward me—he who night by night

Goes by my door without a thought of me—

Neared me and put his hand behind my head,

And leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth.

That was a little dream for Death to give,

Too short to take the whole of life for, yet

I woke with lips made quiet by a kiss.

The dream is worth the dying. Do not smile

So sadly on me with your shining eyes,

You who can set your sorrow to a song

And ease your hurt by singing. But to me

My songs are less than sea-sand that the wind

Drives stinging over me and bears away.

I have no care what place the grains may fall,

Nor of my songs, if Time shall blow them back,

As land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam

Along the bright wet beaches, scattering

The flakes once more against the laboring sea,

Into oblivion. What care have I

To please Apollo since Love hearkens not?

Your words will live forever, men will say

"She was the perfect lover"—I shall die,

I loved too much to live. Go Sappho, go—

I hate your hands that beat so full of life,

Go, lest my hatred hurt you. I shall die,

But you will live to love and love again.

He might have loved some other spring than this;

I should have kept my life—I let it go.

He would not love me now tho' Cypris bound

Her girdle round me. I am Death's, not Love's.

Go from me, Sappho, back to find the sun.

I am alone, alone. O Cyprian . . .