No more for us the little sighing, No more the winds at twilight trouble us.
Lo the fair dead!
“You: an Achilles’ apple
Blushing sweet on a high branch
At the tip of the tallest tree.
You escaped those who would pluck your fruit.
Not that they didn’t try. No,
They could not forget you
Poised beyond their reach.”
Sappho | Fragment 105(a) tr. Anita George
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