Ancient Fire

by Peter Saint-Andre

Sing me, Muse, of your bright sister — small and dark,
They say she was, though I shall never know her.
Her song is lost, yet even her merest shards
   Are a vibrant spark.

She is like a god to me, who sang that song
Of love for what one loves. A pagan was she,
Whose Christian fate it was to burn, her art cut
   Short when night grew long.

Misguided faith I can forgive, but to lose
The greatest of the poets, whose song should live,
I cannot bear. I can but pay her homage:
   Sappho, be my muse.

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