Sappho Translations XI

Sappho Translations XI by Michael R. Burch Sappho, fragment 92 translation by Michael R. Burch “Sappho, if you don’t leave your room, I swear I’ll never love you again! Get out of bed, rise and shine on us, take off your Chian nightdress, then, like a lily floating in a pond, enter your bath. Cleis will bring you a violet frock and lovely saffron blouse from your clothes-chest. Then we’ll adorn you with a bright purple mantle and crown your hair with flowers. So come, darling, with your maddening beauty, while Praxinoa roasts nuts for our breakfast. The gods have been good to us, for today we’re heading at last to Mytilene with you, Sappho, the loveliest of women, like a mother among daughters.” Dearest Atthis, those were fine words, but now you forget everything! Sappho, fragment 98 translation by Michael R. Burch My mother said that in her youth a purple ribband was considered an excellent adornment, but we were dark and for blondes with hair brighter than torches it was better to braid garlands of fresh flowers. The Brothers Poem by Sappho translation by Michael R. Burch … but you’re always prattling about Kharaxos returning with his ship's hold full. As for that, Zeus and the gods alone know, so why indulge idle fantasies? Rather release me, since I am commending numerous prayers to mighty Queen Hera, asking that his undamaged ship might safely return Kharaxos to us. Then we will have serenity. As for everything else, leave it to the gods because calm seas often follow sudden squalls and those whose fortunes the gods transform from unmitigated disaster into joy have received a greater blessing than prosperity. Furthermore, if Larikhos raises his head from this massive depression, we shall see him become a man, lift ours and stand together. Sappho, fragment 58 translation by Michael R. Burch Virgins, be zealous for the violet-scented Muses' lovely gifts and those of melodious lyre, but my once-supple skin sags now; my arthritic bones creak; my ravenblack hair's turned white; my lighthearted heart's grown heavy; my knees buckle; my feet, once fleet as fawns, fail the dance. I often bemoan my fate, but what's the use? Not to grow old is, of course, not an option. I'm reminded of Tithonus, adored by Dawn with her arms full of roses, who, overwhelmed by love, carried him beyond death's dark dominion. Handsome for a day, but soon withered with age, he became an object of pity to his ageless wife. And yet I still love life's finer things.