To Sappho, II

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by Sara Teasdale

Your lines that linger for us down the years,
Like sparks that tell the glory of a flame,
Still keep alight the splendor of your name,
And living still, they sting us into tears.
⁠Sole perfect singer that the world has heard,
⁠Let fall from that far heaven of thine
⁠One golden word.

Oh tell us we shall find beside the Nile,
Held fast in some Egyptian's dusty hand,
Deep covered by the centuries of sand,
The songs long written that were lost awhile—
⁠Sole perfect singer that the world has heard,
⁠Let fall from that far heaven of thine
⁠This golden word.

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