It’s Sunday morning and I’m reading the poems of Sappho, made ever mysterious by their fragmentary nature. So beautiful! Love, Susie x
Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
Atop on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot, somehow, —
Forget it not, nay; but got it not, for none could get it till now.
Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is
Which the passing feet of the shepherds forever tear
Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.
Poem - Sappho. Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Painting - Death of Sappho by Miguel Carbonell Selva