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.
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire