Pine Valley

Poems by Sappho

in translations by Mary Barnard

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

You are the herdsman of the evening

Hesperus, you herd
homeward whatever
Dawn's light dispersed

You herd sheep--herd
goats--herd children
home to their mothers

Sleep darling

I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is

like a golden
flower

I wouldn't
take all Croesus'
kingdom with love
thrown in, for her

In the spring twilight

The full moon is shining:
Girls take their places
as though around an altar

And their feet move

Rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an

altar of love, crushing
a circle in the soft
smooth flowering grass

Don't ask me what to wear

I have no embroidered
headband from Sardis to
give you, Cleis, such as
I wore

and my mother
always said that in her
day a purple ribbon
looped through the hair was thought
to be high style indeed
but we were dark:
a girl
whose hair is yellower than
torchlight should wear no
headdress but fresh flowers

Timas

We put the urn aboard ship
with this inscription

This is the dust of little
Timas who unmarried was led
into Persephone's dark bedroom

and she being far from home, girls
her age took new-edged blades
to cut, in mourning for her,
these curls of their soft hair

Cyprian, in my dream

the folds of a purple
kerchief shadowed
your cheeks--the one

Timas one time sent,
a timid gift, all
the way from Phocaea

Bridesmaids' Carol I

O Bride brimful of
rosy little loves!

O brightest jewel of
the Queen of Paphos!

Come now

to your
bedroom to your
bed
and play there
gently sweetly
with your bridegroom

And may Hesperus
lead you not at all
unwilling

until
you stand wondering
before the silver

Throne of Hera
Queen of Marriage

You wear her livery

Shining with gold,
you, too, Hecate,
Queen of Night, hand-
maid to Aphrodite

You know the place, then

Leave Crete and come to us
waiting where the grove is
pleasantest, by precincts

sacred to you; incense
smokes on the altar; cold
streams murmur through the

apple branches, a young
rose thicket shades the ground
and quivering leaves pour

down deep sleep; in meadows
where horses have grown sleek
among spring flowers, dill

scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with love
stirred into clear nectar

Yes, Atthis, you may be sure
Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us

of the life we shared here,

when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing
pleased her best

Now among Lydian women she in her
turn stands first as the red-
fingered moon rising at sunset takes

precedence over stars around her;
her light spreads equally
on the salt sea and fields thick with bloom

Delicious dew pours down to freshen
roses, delicate thyme,
and blossoming sweet clover; she wanders

aimlessly, thinking of gentle
Atthis, her heart hanging
heavy with longing in her little breast

She shouts aloud, Come! we know it;
thousand-eared night repeats that cry
across the sea shining between us

Be kind to me

Gongyla; I ask only
that you wear the cream
white dress when you come

Desire darts about your
loveliness, drawn down in
circling flight at sight of it

and I am glad, although
once I too quarrelled
with Aphrodite

to whom
I pray that you will
come soon