Will none say of Sappho,
Speaking of her lovers,
And the love they gave her,—
Joy and days and beauty,
Flute-playing and roses,
Song and wine and laughter,—
Will none, musing, murmur,
“Yet, for all the roses,
All the flutes and lovers,
Doubt not she was lonely
As the sea, whose cadence
Haunts the world for ever.”