Sappho
As a wan weaver in an attic dim,
Hopeless yet patient, so he may be fed
With 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 breaks
Some 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 long
We were content to drudge for sordid joys that
die.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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