Sappho to Chloe

Friend!
Poor, foolish blossom!
How thou shinest for him who
Dishevels thee, and withers thee.

Lo, such a man.
The thrall he is!
His doings loud and running.
Could we be so?
Only a woman walks.
She is, and beauty tarries thence,
Red little ears of curls are opened.

Scents my blood to thee as thine to me?
No, Chloe.
It scenteth not.
Beauty thou knowest not, nor beauty's longing,
The seeking wind of the May of flowers,
Thou knowest it not.

Without a soul through me thou roamest
Thou glowest hence to other haunts than I.
O fie for shame!
Thou my degenerated one!
How else could I feel thee, thou truant from me!

List: fortunate like to the gods seemeth the man to me,
Who face to face with thee may sit quite near,
And listen into him thy chatter of twittering lips,
That sets the soul on fire.