A poem by Sappho

A Fayum mummy portrait, a painted portrait on wooden board attached to the body of an usually upper class person before burial in Roman Egypt. 

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            Immortal Aphrodite, on your intricately brocaded throne,

            child of Zeus, weaver of wiles, this I pray:

            Dear Lady, don’t crush my heart

            with pains and sorrows.

          But come here, if ever before,

            when you heard my far-off cry,

            you listened. And you came,

            leaving your father’s house,

            yoking your chariot of gold.

          Then beautiful swift sparrows led you over the black earth

            from the sky through the middle air,

            whirling their wings into a blur.

            Rapidly they came. And you, O Blessed Goddess,

            a smile on your immortal face,

         asked what had happened this time,

            why did I call again,

            and what did I especially desire

            for myself in my frenzied heart:

            “Who this time am I to persuade

         to your love? Sappho, who is doing you wrong?

            For even if she flees, soon she shall pursue.

            And if she refuses gifts, soon she shall give them.

            If she doesn’t love you, soon she shall love

            even if she’s unwilling.”

         Come to me now once again and release me

            from grueling anxiety.

            All that my heart longs for,

            fulfill. And be yourself my ally in love’s battle.

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           Some say an army of horsemen,

            some of footsoldiers, some of ships,

            is the fairest thing on the black earth,

            but I say it is what one loves.

           It’s very easy to make this clear

            to everyone, for Helen,

            by far surpassing mortals in beauty,

            left the best of all husbands

            and sailed to Troy,

          mindful of neither her child

            nor her dear parents, but

            with one glimpse she was seduced by

            Aphrodite. For easily bent…

            and nimbly…[missing text]…

          has reminded me now

           of Anactoria who is not here;

           I would much prefer to see the lovely

           way she walks and the radiant glance of her face

           than the war-chariots of the Lydians or

          their footsoldiers in arms.

Translated by Julia Dubnoff

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