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To me, that man who sits before you Equals the gods, as he listens, Closely, to your sweet voice And lovely laughter -- which troubles The heart in my ribs. For Brocheo, When I look at you my voice fails, My tongue is broken and subtle fire Runs like a thief through my body. My eyes are dead to light, my ears Pound, and sweat pours down over me. I shudder, I am paler than grass, And am intimate with dying -- but I must suffer everything, being poor. Sappho of Lesbos (fl. 600 B. C.) |
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READING / LITERATURE LITERATURE ON LINE |