LXVIII
Ὀπταις ἄμμε.
THOU burnest us ; thy torches' flashing spires,
Eros, we hail!
Thou burnest us, Immortal, but the fires
Thou kindlest fail :
We die,
And thine effulgent braziers pale.
Ah, Phaon, thou who hast abandoned me,
Thou who dost smile
To think deserted Lesbos rings with thee,
A little while
Gone by
There will be muteness in thine isle.
Even as a god who finds his temple-flame
Sunken, unfed,
Who, loving not the priestess, loves the fame
Bright altars spread,
Wilt sigh
To find thy lyric glory dead ?
Or will Damophyla, the lovely-haired,
My music learn,
Singing how Sappho of thy love despaired,
Till thou dost burn,
While I,
Eros ! am quenched within my urn ?
