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XLI


Phaon, O my lover,
  1
What should so detain thee,

Now the wind comes walking
  3
Through the leafy twilight?

All the plum leaves quiver
  5
With the coolth and darkness,

After their long patience
  7
In consuming ardour.

And the moving grasses
  9
Have relief; the dew-drench

Comes to quell the parching
  11
Ache of noon they suffered.

I alone of all things
  13
Fret with unsluiced fire.

And there is no quenching
  15
In the night for Sappho,

Since her lover Phaon
  17
Leaves her unrequited.







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