The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough, The blue smoke over the hill,

And the shadows trailing the valley-side, Make up the autumn day.

When the golden days arrive, With the swallow at the eaves,  Sighing at the latch with spring,

If death be good, Why do the gods not die? If life be ill, Why do the gods still live?

If love be naught, Why do the gods still love?

 If love be all, What should men do but love?

So it was with those I loved In the years ere I loved thee.

Many a saying sounds like truth, Until Truth itself is heard.

Many a beauty only lives Until Beauty passes by.

And the mortal is forgot In the shadow of the god.

Now the moon-white butterflies Float across the liquid air,  Glad as in a dream.

As, on a morn, a traveller might emerge From the deep green seclusion of the hills,

By a cool road through forest and through fern,

Little frequented, winding, followed long

With joyous expectation and day-dreams,

And on a sudden,

turning a great rock ,

dark with dripping water,

Behold the seaboard  of surf and sound with all the space and glory of the world

                                                          sappho