Sappho

AS a wan weaver in an attic dim,Hopeless yet patient, so he may be fedWith scanty store of sorrow-seasoned bread,Heareth a blithe bird carol over him;And sees no longer walls and rafters grim,But rural lanes where little feet are led,Through springing flowers, fields with clover spread,Clouds, swan-like, that o'er depths of azure swim;—

So when upon our earth-dulled ear new breaksSome fragment, Sappho, of thy skyey song,A noble wonder in our souls awakes;

The deathless Beautiful draws strangely nigh,And we look up, and marvel how so longWe were content to toil for sordid joys that die.