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.