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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.