Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings."
--Translation by Colonel Mure.

"Now, dearest, where is my kiss?"

"I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in
kissing."

"You are too bad. But tell me, is not my song lovely?"

"Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing."

"And the Greek poets write?"

"Yes, there you are right too, I admit."

"Are there no poets in Persia?"

"How can you ask such a question? How could a nation, who despised song,
pretend to any nobility of feeling?"

"But you have some very bad customs."

"Well?"

"You take so many wives."

"My Sappho..."

"Do not misunderstand me. I love you so much, that I have no other
wish than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you. If,
by taking me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your
country, if you would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even
blame, (for who could dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives;
but let me have you, for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even
three years. Will you promise this, Bartja?"

"I will."

"And then, when my time has passed, and you must yield to the customs
of your country (for it will not be love that leads you to bring home
a second wife), then let me be the first among your slaves. Oh! I have
pictured that so delightfully to myself. When you go to war I shall set
the tiara on your head, gird on the sword, and place the lance in your
hand; and when you return a conqueror, I shall be the first to crown you
with the wreath of victory. When you ride out to the chase, mine will be
the duty of buckling on your spurs, and when you go to the banquet, of
adorning and anointing you, winding the garlands of poplar and roses and
twining them around your forehead and shoulders. If wounded, I will be
your nurse; will never stir from your side if you are ill, and when I
see you happy will retire, and feast my eyes from afar on your glory and
happiness. Then perchance you will call me to your side, and your kiss
will say, 'I am content with my Sappho, I love her still.'"

"O Sappho, wert thou only my wife now!--to-day! The man who possesses
such a treasure as I have in thee, will guard it carefully, but
never care to seek for others which, by its side, can only show their
miserable poverty. He who has once loved thee, can never love another: I
know it is the custom in my country to have many wives, but this is
only all