 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
44
SAPPHO.
The poisonous tooth of time, O shepherdess,Hath kill'd thy thousand vines; a few scarr'd shoots
Alone are green above the wither'd roots,
And thence we cherish an admiring guess
Of what the rich ripe vintage should have been:
Poor muse, they do thee wrong; they have not seen
Those records lost of truth and tenderness,
They have not read thy heart,—but harm thee still
Where, as unknown, their charity should bless,
Tainting thy memory with whisper'd ill:
Yet are those snatches of thy musical songs
Full of warm nature, and impassion'd truth,
Love, beauty, sweetness, and eternal youth:
Sappho,—we praise thee rather for thy wrongs.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |