XLI

Phaon, O my lover,

What should so detain thee,

Now the wind comes walking

Through the leafy twilight?

All the plum-leaves quiver

With the coolth and darkness,

After their long patience

In consuming ardour.

And the moving grasses

Have relief; the dew-drench

Comes to quell the parching

Ache of noon they suffered.

I alone of all things

Fret with unsluiced fire.

And there is no quenching

In the night for Sappho,

Since her lover Phaon

Leaves her unrequited.