Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837–1909Sappho
SwinburnL
Song’s priestess, mad with joy and pain of love,
Name above all names that are lights above,
We have lov’d, prais’d, pitied, crown’d, and done thee wrong,
O thou past praise and pity; thou the sole
Utterly deathless, perfect only and whole
Immortal, body and soul.
For over all whom time hath overpast
The shadow of sleep inexorable is cast,
The implacable sweet shadow of perfect sleep
That gives not back what life gives death to keep;
Yea, all that liv’d and lov’d and sang and sinn’d
Are all borne down death’s cold, sweet, soundless wind
That blows all night and knows not whom its breath,
Darkling, may touch to death:
But one that wind hath touch’d and changed not,—one
Whose body and soul are parcel of the sun;
One that earth’s fire could burn not, nor the sea
Quench; nor might human doom take hold on thee;
All praise, all pity, all dreams have done thee wrong,
All love, with eyes love-blinded from above;
Song’s priestess, mad with joy and pain of love,
Love’s priestess, mad with pain and joy of song.
Than the air may have of thee,
Or the earth’s warm woodlands girdling with green girth
Thy secret, sleepless, burning life on earth,
Or even the sea that once, being woman crown’d
And girt with fire and glory of anguish round,
Thou wert so fain to seek to, fain to crave
If she would hear thee and save
And give thee comfort of thy great green grave?
Because I have known thee always who thou art,
Thou knowest, have known thee to thy heart’s own heart,
Nor ever have given light ear to storied song
That did thy sweet name sweet unwitting wrong,
Nor ever have call’d thee nor would call for shame,
Thou knowest, but inly by thine only name,
Sappho—because I have known thee and lov’d, hast thou
None other answer now?
As brother and sister were we, child and bird,
Since thy first Lesbian word
Flam’d on me, and I knew not whence I knew,
This was the song that struck my whole soul through,
Pierced my keen spirit of sense with edge more keen,
Even when I knew not,—even ere sooth was seen,—
When thou wast but the tawny sweet wing’d thing
Whose cry was but of spring.