Ye wells, ye founts that fall
From the steep mountain wall,
That fall, and flash, and fleet
With silver feet,
Ye woods, ye streams that lave
The meadows with your wave,
Ye hills, and valley fair,
Attend my prayer!
When Heaven and Fate decree
My latest hour for me,
When I must pass away
From pleasant day,
I ask that none my break
The marble for my sake,
Wishful to make more fair
My sepulchre.
Only a laurel tree
Shall shade the grave of me,
Only Apollo's bough
Shall guard me now!
Now shall I be at rest
Among the spirits blest,
The happy dead that dwell -
Where,— who may tell?
The snow and wind and hail
May never there prevail,
Nor ever thunder fall
Nor storm at all.
But always fadeless there
The woods are green and fair,
And faithful ever more
Spring to that shore!
There shall I ever hear
Alcaeus’ music clear,
And sweetest of all things
There SAPPHO sings.