The songs of Bilitis

STRIPPED of my clothes, I climbed into a tree; my bare thighs embraced the smooth, moist bark; my sandals trod upon the branches.

At the top, yet under the leaves and shadowed from the heat, I sat astride a projecting branch and balanced my feet in the void.

It rained. The water drops fell and slipped over my skin. My hands were stained with moss and my toes were reddened from crushed flowers.

When the wind passed through the branches I felt the fair life of the tree; then I pressed my legs yet closer and laid my open lips upon the hairy nape of a bough.

LET us sing a pastoral song; call upon Pan, god of the wind of summer. Selenis and I each watch our flocks, from the round shadow of an olive tree which trembles.

Selenis lies upon the meadow. She raises herself and runs, searches for grasshoppers, gathers the flowers and herbs or bathes her face in the cool waters of the brook.

And I—I draw up the wool from the white backs of the sheep to garnish my distaff, and I spin. The hours move slowly. In the sky, an eagle passes.

The shadow turns; let us move the basket of flowers and the jar of milk. Let us sing a pastoral song, call upon Pan, god of the wind of summer.

MY mother bathes me in the darkness, she dresses me in the bright sunlight and arranges my hair in the light of lamps; but if we walk out in the moonlight she draws my girdle into a double knot.

She says to me: “Play with virgins, dance with little children; look not out of the window, shun the words of young men and turn from the counsel of widows.

“One evening, someone will take thee, as others are taken, over the threshold, amidst a great assemblage with sonorous drums and amorous flutes.

“That evening, when thou goest away, Bilito, thou wilt leave me three gourds of gall, one for the morning, one for midday and the third, the bitterest, the third for the days of festival.”

I HAVE black hair all the length of my back and a small round cap. My shirt is of white wool. My legs are fast browned by the sun.

If I lived in the city, I would wear jewels of gold and garments broidered with gold and shoes of silver.... I regard my naked feet in their slippers of dust.

Psophis! come here, little beggar! carry me to the spring, bathe my feet in thy hands and press olives and violets to perfume them like the flowers.

Today thou shalt be my slave, thou shalt follow me and serve me and, at the end of the day, I will give thee, for thy mother, lentils from my garden.

A BLIND old man lives upon the mountain. For looking upon the nymphs, his eyes have been dead for a long time. And, since, his happiness is a distant memory.

“Yes, I have seen them,” he said to me; “Helopsychria, Limnanthis; they were standing near the bank of the green pool of Physos. The water sparkled higher than their knees.

“Their necks inclined beneath their long hair. Their nails were thin as the wings of grasshoppers. Their nipples were hollowed like the cups of hyacinths.

“They trailed their fingers upon the water and drew up, from an invisible vase, the long-stemmed water-lilies. Around their parted thighs, the ripples slowly widened.”

“TORI-TORTUE, what doest thou amongst us?—I wind the wool and the thread of Milet.—Alas! Alas! Why dost thou not dance?—I am very sorrowful. I am very sorrowful.

“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—I cut a reed for a funereal flute.—Alas! Alas! What has befallen him!—I will not tell. I will not tell.

“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—I press the olives for oil for the stèle.—Alas! Alas! And who, then, is dead?—Canst thou ask? Canst thou ask?

“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—He has fallen into the sea....—Alas! Alas! And how is that?—From the backs of white horses. From the backs of white horses.”

AS I was seated in the evening before the door of the house, a young man passed by. He looked at me, I turned away my head. He spoke to me but I did not answer.

He wished to approach me. I took a sickle from the wall and I would have cut open his cheek if he had advanced another step.

Then, drawing back a little, he began to smile and breathed in his hand toward me, saying: “Receive the kiss.” And I cried! And I wept! So much so that my mother hastened to me.

Alarmed, believing that I had been stung as though by a scorpion, I wept: “He embraced me.” My mother also embraced me and carried me away in her arms.

IT is already light I should rise. But the drowsiness of morning is sweet and the warmth of my bed enfolds me closer. I long to remain lying so.

Soon I will go to the stable. I will give the goats grass and flowers and a flask of fresh water drawn from the well where I will drink with them.

Then I will fasten them to the post and milk their soft, warm udders; and if the kids are not jealous, I will suck with them from the supple teats.

Amaltheia, has she not fed Dzeus? Therefore I will go. But not yet. The sun has risen too soon and my mother is not yet awake.

THE fine rain has fallen over all things, gently and in silence. It still rains a little. I will go out among the trees. My feet shall be naked, so that I will not soil my shoes.

The rain of springtime is delicious. The branches, laden with moist flowers, have a perfume which bewilders me. One sees the sparkle of the sun on the delicate bark.

Alas! how many flowers upon the ground! How pitiful, these flowers which have fallen. They should not be gathered and mixed with the mud but saved for the bees.

The beetles and the snails traverse the path between the puddles of water; I would not tread upon them nor frighten the golden lizard which stretches out, blinking his eyelids.

NYMPHS of the woods and fountains, sweetest of friends, I am here. Hide not, but come to my aid for I am burdened with many flowers.

I would choose, from all the forest, a poor hamadryad with raised arms and in her hair, the color of the leaves, I will place my heaviest rose.

See: I have taken so many from the fields that I cannot carry them away unless you help me make a garland. If you refuse, beware:

She of you with the orange hair, I saw her yesterday embraced like a beast by the satyr Lamprosathes and I will denounce the shameless one.

I THREW myself into her arms and wept and for a long time she felt my hot tears slip over her shoulders; then, when my sorrow let me speak:

“Alas, I am only a child; the young men never look at me. When will I have, like thee, a young woman’s breasts to raise my robe and entice kisses?

“There are no curious eyes if my tunic slips; no one gathers up the flower that falls from my hair, nor does anyone threaten to kill me if my mouth is given to another.”

She replied to me tenderly: “Bilitis, little virgin, thou criest like a cat at the moon and thou art troubled without reason. The girls who are most impatient are not the soonest chosen.”

Bergeronnet, bird of Kypris, sing with our first desires! The fresh bodies of young girls bloom with flowers like the earth. The night of all our dreams approaches and we talk of it among ourselves.

Sometimes we compare, all together, the differences in our beauties, our hair already long, our young breasts still small, our puberties round like shells and hidden under the nascent down.

Yesterday I competed with Melantho, my elder sister. She was proud of her breasts which had grown in a month, and pointing to my straight tunic, she called me “Little Child.”

No man could see us, we placed ourselves naked before the girls, and if she vanquished me on one point, I far surpassed her on all others. Bergeronnet, bird of Kypris, sing with our first desires!

I BATHED myself, alone, in the forest river. I am sure I frightened the naiads for I divined them moving anxiously far within the dark water.

I called them. To resemble them better, I plaited upon my neck irises black as my hair and branches of yellow gilliflowers.

Of a long floating grass I made myself a green girdle and, to see it, I pressed up my breasts and inclined my head a little.

And I called: “Naiads! naiads! play with me, be kind.” But the naiads are transparent, and perhaps, without knowing, I have caressed their delicate arms.

WHEN the sun burns less fiercely, we will go and play upon the river banks, we will struggle for a frail crocus or for a damp hyacinth.

We will make them into round collars and garlands, prizes for our running. We will take each other by the hand and by the ends of our tunics.

Come, Melissa! give us honey. Come, Naiads! we will bathe with you. Come, Melissa! throw a shadow gently over our perspiring bodies.

And we will offer you, kind nymphs, not shameful wine, but oil and milk and goats with twisted horns.

THE voyagers who return from Sardis tell us that the women of Lydia are covered with collars and stones from the top of their hair to their tinted feet.

The girls of my country have neither bracelets nor diadems, but one of their fingers carries a silver ring and upon the bezel is graven the triangle of the goddess.

When they turn the point outward, they would say: “Psyche is to be taken.” When they turn the point inward, they would say: “Psyche is taken.”

The men believe this, the women do not. As for me, I little regard which way the point is turned, for Psyche offers herself freely. Psyche is always to be taken.

ON the soft grass, in the night, the young girls with hair of violets have all danced together, one of each two playing the part of lover.

The virgins said: “We are not for you.” And, as though they were bashful, concealed their virginity. Among the trees, an ægipan played upon the flute.

The others said: “We have come to seek you.” They arranged their robes like the tunics of men and they struggled gently while entwining their dancing legs.

Then, each pretending to be vanquished, took her friend by the ears, like a cup with two handles, and, inclining the head, drank a kiss.

THE river is almost dry; the brittle reeds are dying in the mud; the air burns and, far beyond the hollow banks, a clear brook flows upon the gravel.

It is there that, from morning to evening, the little naked children come to play. They bathe themselves only as high as their calves for the river is low.

But they walk in the current, sometimes slipping on the rocks, and the little boys throw water on the little girls, who laugh.

And when a troop of passing merchants lead their great white oxen to drink, they clasp their hands behind them and watch the enormous beasts.

I AM loved by the little children; when they see me they run to me and cling to my tunic or clasp my legs in their little arms.

If they have gathered flowers, they give them all to me; if they have caught a beetle, they put it in my hand; if they have nothing, they caress me and make me sit before them.

Then they kiss me on the cheek, they rest their heads upon my breasts; they supplicate me with their eyes. I know well what they would say.

They would say: “Dear Bilitis, tell us, for we are quiet, the history of the hero Perseus or the death of the little Hellé.”

OUR mothers were pregnant at the same time and, this evening, she is married, Melissa, my dearest friend. The roses still lie upon the path; the torches have not yet burned out.

And I return, by the same path, with mother, and I dream. Thus, as she is now, I also will be later. Am I already a woman?

The cortège, the flutes, the nuptial song and the flowered car of the bridegroom, all the festival, some other evening, will unfold for me under the branches of the olives.

Like Melissa at this same hour, I shall unveil myself before a man, I shall know love in the night, and, later, little children will nourish themselves at my swollen breasts....

THE next day I went to her house and we reddened when we saw each other. She led me into her chamber where we would be alone.

I had many things to say to her, but when I saw her I forgot them all. I did not even throw myself upon her neck, I regarded her high girdle.

I was astonished that nothing in her face had changed, that she still resembled my friend although, since the sleepless night, she had learned so many things startling to me.

Suddenly I seated myself upon her knees, took her in my arms, and whispered quickly, anxiously, into her ear. Then she laid her cheek against mine and told me all.

THE night mingles with the hair of women and the branches of the willows. I walked at the edge of the water. Suddenly I heard singing; then only I knew I was there with young girls.

I said to them: “To whom do you sing?” They replied: “To those who return.” One awaited her father, another her brother; but she who awaited her lover was the most impatient.

They had woven for themselves crowns and garlands cut from the branches of palms and lotos drawn from the water. They rested their arms on each other’s necks and sang one after another.

I moved along the river, saddened and all alone, but in looking about me I saw that, behind the great trees, the moon with eyes of blue was guiding me.

“SHADOW of the woods, whence she should come, tell me, where has my mistress gone?—She has descended upon the plain.—Plain, where has my mistress gone?—She has followed the banks of the river.”

“Fair river who hast seen her pass, tell me, is she near this place?—She has left me for the path.—Path, dost thou see her still?—She has left me for the road.”

“O white road, road of the city, tell me, where hast thou led her?—To the street of gold which enters into Sardis.—O street of light, touchest thou her naked feet?—She has entered the palace of the king.”

“O palace, splendor of the earth, return her to me.—See! She has collars on her breasts and circlets in her hair, an hundred pearls along her legs, two arms around her waist.”

COME, we will go into the fields, under the thickets of juniper; we will eat honey from the hives, we will make snares for grasshoppers with the twigs of asphodels.

Come, we will go to see Lykas who tends his father’s flocks upon the slopes of shadowy Tauros. Surely he will give us milk.

Already I hear the sound of his flute. He plays most skilfully. Here are the dogs and the sheep and he himself standing against a tree. Is he not fair as Adonis!

O Lykas! give us milk. Here are figs from our fig trees. We would rest with thee. Bearded goats, do not leap, for fear of exciting the restless bucks.

IT is not for Artemis whom they adore at Perga, this garland woven with my hands, although Artemis may be a good goddess who would guard my couches of pain.

It is not for Athena whom they adore at Sidon although she may be of ivory and of gold and carry in her hand a pomegranate which tempts the birds.

No, it is for Aphrodite whom I adore in my heart, for she only can give what my lips most need, if I hang on her sacred tree my garland of tender roses.

But I will not ask aloud that which I beg of her. I will raise myself upon my toes and confide my secret to a cleft in the bark.

THE storm continued all the night. Selenis of the beautiful hair had come to spin with me. She remained for fear of the mud, and, pressed one against the other, we filled my little bed.

When girls lie together, sleep remains at the door. “Bilitis, tell me, tell me, whom lovest thou?” She slipped her leg over mine to caress me softly.

And she said, against my mouth: “I know, Bilitis, whom thou lovest. Close thine eyes, I am Lykas.” I replied, touching her: “Do I not know thou art a girl? Thy jest fits badly.”

But she replied: “In truth I am Lykas if thou wilt close thine eyes. These are his arms, these are his hands....” And tenderly, in the silence, she enchanted my reverie into a singular illusion.

PURIFIED by the ritual ablutions, and clad in violet tunics, we have kissed toward the earth our hands laden with branches of olive.

“O Persephone of the Underworld, or whatever may be the name thou desirest, if this name is acceptable, hear us, O Shadowy-Haired, Queen sterile and unsmiling.

“Kokhlis, daughter of Thrasymakos, is ill, and dangerously. Do not call her yet. Thou knowest she cannot escape thee; one day, very late, thou shalt take her.

“But drag her not away so soon, O Dominatress invisible! For she weeps because of her virginity, she supplicates through our prayers, and we will give, for her deliverance, three black unshorn ewes.”

AS we both loved him, we played with the dice. It was a great moment. Many of the young girls looked on.

She threw at first the cast of Kyklopes and I the cast of Solon. But she the Kallibolos and I, feeling that I lost, I prayed to the goddess.

I played, I had the Epiphenon, she the terrible cast of Kios, I the Antiteukos, she the Trikias, and I the cast of Aphrodite which won the disputed lover.

But, seeing her pale, I threw my arm about her neck and said, close to her ear (so that she alone heard me): “Do not weep, little friend, we will let him choose between us.”

ALL the day, my mother has kept me in the gynæceum with my sisters whom I do not love and who talk among themselves in low voices. I, in a little corner, I spin my distaff.

Distaff, because I am alone with thee, it is to thee I will talk. With thy wig of white wool thou art like an old woman. Listen to me.

If I could go, I would not be here, seated in the shadow of the wall and spinning wearily. I would be sleeping with the violets upon the slopes of Tauros.

Because he is so much poorer than I, my mother will not espouse me. However, I say to thee: either I will have no wedding day or it is he who will lead me over the threshold.

FOR the day of Hyacinthus he gave me a syrinx made of carefully cut reeds united with white wax which was sweet as honey to my lips.

He taught me to play, seated upon his knees; but I trembled a little. He played after me; so softly that I could scarcely hear him.

We had nothing to say to each other, so near we were, one to the other; but our songs replied to each other and, by turns, our lips touched the flute.

It has grown late, there is the song of the green frogs who begin with the night. My mother will never believe that I have stayed so long searching for my lost girdle.

HE said to me: “Last night I dreamed. I had thy hair about my neck. I had thy locks like a black collar about my neck and over my breast.

“I caressed them; and they were mine; and we were bound thus forever, by the same locks, mouth upon mouth, like two laurels with but one root.

“And, little by little, it seemed to me that our limbs were mingled; that I became thyself and that thou didst enter into me like my dream.”

When he had finished he softly laid his hands upon my shoulders and looked at me with so tender a regard that I lowered my eyes, shivering.

LYKAS saw me come to him clad only in a light scarf, for the days had become overwhelming; he wished to mould my breast which remained uncovered.

He took fine clay, kneaded in the fresh, clear water. When he laid it upon my skin I thought I should faint, for the earth was very cold.

From my moulded breast, he made a cup, round and umbilicated. He placed it in the sun to dry and tinted it with purple and ochre by pressing flowers all around it.

Then we went to the fountain which is consecrated to the nymphs and threw the cup into the current with stalks of gillyflowers.

WHEN the night mounts into the sky, the world belongs to us and to the gods. We go over the fields to the spring, the dark wood to the glades, wherever our naked feet lead us.

The little stars shine enough for such little shadows as we are. Sometimes, beneath the branches, we find sleeping hinds.

But more charming than all else, in the night, is a place known only to ourselves which attracts us across the forest: a thicket of mysterious roses.

For nothing in the world is so divine as the perfume of roses in the night. How is it that, in the time when I was alone, I never felt their intoxication?

AT first I did not reply; shame flushed upon my cheeks, and the beatings of my heart hurt my breasts.

Then I resisted, I said: “No. No.” I turned away my head and the kiss did not open my lips, nor love my fast closed knees.

Then he begged my forgiveness, he kissed my hair, I felt his burning breath, and he departed.... Now, I am alone.

I regard the empty place, the deserted wood, the trampled earth. And I bite my fingers until they bleed and smother my cries in the grass.

ALL alone I fell asleep like a partridge in the heather.... The light wind, the murmuring of the waters, the sweetness of the night, all held me there.

Imprudently I slept and awakened with a cry, and I struggled, and I wept. But already it was too late. What can the hands of a child do?

He would not leave me. Rather, with greater tenderness, he pressed me closer to him, and I saw in all the world neither the earth nor the trees but only the light in his eyes....

To thee, Cypris victorious, I consecrate these offerings still moist with the dew, vestiges of the pains of virginity, witnesses of my sleep and of my resistance.

WASH-women, say not that you have seen me! I confide in you; do not repeat it! Between my tunic and my breasts, I bring you something.

I am like a little frightened hen.... I know not whether I dare tell you.... My heart beats as though I would die.... It is a veil that I bring you.

A veil and the ribbons from my legs. You see: there is blood upon them. By Apollo, it was in spite of me! I defended myself well; but the man who loves is stronger than we.

Wash them well; spare neither the salt nor the chalk. I will place four oboli for you at the feet of Aphrodite; even a drachma of silver.

WHEN he returned, I hid my face with my two hands. He said to me: “Fear nothing. Who has seen our kissing?—Who has seen us? the night and the moon.”

“—And the stars and the first dawn. The moon has mirrored herself in the lake and has told it to the water under the willows. The water of the lake has told it to the oar.

“And the oar has told it to the boat and the boat has told it to the fisher. Alas; alas! if that were all! But the fisher has told it to a woman.

“The fisher has told it to a woman: my father and my mother and my sisters and all Hellas will know it.”

ONE woman may envelop herself in white wool. Another may clothe herself in silk and gold. Another cover herself with flowers, with green leaves and grapes.

Me, I enjoy life only when naked. My lover, take me as I am: without robes or jewels or sandals. Here is Bilitis, quite alone.

My hair is black with its own blackness and my lips red of their own color. My locks float about me, free and round, like feathers.

Take me as my mother made me in a night of love long past, and if I please thee so, forget not to tell me.

THE little house where he has his bed is the prettiest in the world. It is made from the branches of trees, four walls of dried earth and a roof of thatch.

I love it, for there we have slept since the nights have grown cold; and as the nights become still colder, they become longer also. When the day comes, I am very weary.

The mattress lies upon the ground; two covers of black wool shut in our bodies which warm each other. His chest presses against my breasts. My heart throbs....

He clasps me so vigorously that he bruises me, poor little girl that I am; but when he is within me I know nothing more of the world, and one could cut off my limbs without awakening me from my delight.

ALAS for me! I have lost his letter. I had placed it between my skin and my strophion, under the warmth of my breast I ran; it must have fallen.

I will return on my steps: if someone has found it they will read it to my mother and I shall be whipped before my jeering sisters.

If it is a man who has found it he will give it to me; or even if he wishes to talk to me in secret, I have the means to charm it from him.

If it is a woman who has read it, O Guardian Zeus protect me! for she will tell it to all the world or she will take my lover from me.

“THE night is so profound that it penetrates my eyes.—Thou seest not the road. Thou wilt lose thyself in the forest.

“The noise of falling waters fills my ears.—Thou wouldst not hear the voice of thy lover though he were not twenty steps away.

“The perfume of the flowers is so powerful that I grow faint and I shall fall.—Thou wouldst not know even if he crossed thy path.

“Ah! he is very far from here, on the other side of the mountain; but I see him and I hear him and I feel him as though he touched me.”

“WHEN the water of the river remounts to the snow-hidden summits: when barley and wheat is sown in the moving furrows of the sea:

“When the pines grow from the lakes and the water-lilies from the rocks: when the sun becomes black, when the moon falls upon the grass:

“Then, but only then, I will take another woman and I will forget thee, Bilitis, soul of my life, heart of my heart.”

He has said that to me, he has said that to me! What matters the rest of the world; where art thou, boundless happiness which can compare with my happiness!

IT is now I who search for him. Each night, very softly, I leave the house and I go by a long path, to his meadow, to see him sleeping.

Sometimes I rest for a long time without speaking, happy merely in seeing him, and I approach my lips to his and kiss only his breath.

Then suddenly I cast myself upon him. He awakens in my arms, and he cannot raise himself, for I struggle. He gives up, and laughs, and clasps me. Thus we play in the night.

... First dawn, O wicked light, thou already! In what ever-darkened cave, on what subterranean meadow, can we love so long that we may lose remembrance of thee....

SLEEP: I have sent to Sardis for thy toys, and for thy raiment to Babylon. Sleep, thou art the daughter of Bilitis and a king of the rising sun.

The wood is the palace which was built for thee alone and which I have given to thee. The trunks of the pines are the columns; the high branches are the arches.

Sleep. That he may not awaken thee, I will sell the sun to the sea. The breeze from the wings of a dove is less light than thy breath.

Daughter of mine, flesh of my flesh, when thou openest thine eyes, say whether thou wishest the plain or the city or the mountain or the moon or the white cortège of the gods.

THROUGH the woods covered with hoarfrost, I walked; my hair before my mouth glistened with little icicles, and my sandals were heavy with clinging and heaped-up snow.

He said to me: “What seekest thou?—I follow the tracks of a satyr. His little cloven steps alternate like holes in a white mantle.” He said to me: “The satyrs are dead.

“The satyrs and the nymphs also. For thirty years there has been no winter so terrible. The track thou seest is that of a buck. But let us rest here, where their tomb is.”

And with the iron of his hoe, he broke the ice of the spring where once laughed the naiads. He lifted the great cold masses and, raising them toward the pale sky, he gazed about him.

BEAUTIFUL ship that has brought me here, along the shores of Ionia, I abandon thee to the glistening waves, and, with a light foot, I leap upon the beach.

Thou wilt return to the country where the virgin is the friend of the nymphs. Forget not to thank those invisible counsellors, and carry them, as an offering, this branch plucked by my hands.

Thou wert once a pine, and, on the mountains, the vast hot Notos shook thy branches with their squirrels and birds.

Let Boreos be now thy guide and push thee softly toward the port, black ship, escorted by dolphins, at the will of the kindly sea.

I RUB my eyes.... Is it already day, I wonder. Ah! who is this near me?... a woman?... By Paphia, I had forgotten.... O Charites; how I am shamed.

To what country am I come, and what is this island where one learns thus of love? If I were not all wearied, I would believe it a dream.... Is it possible that this is the Psappha?

She sleeps.... She is certainly beautiful, although her hair is cut like that of an athlete. But this astonishing countenance, this virile breast, and these narrow hips....

I would like to go before she awakens. Alas! I am against the wall. I must step over her. I am afraid lest I touch her hip and that she will take me as I pass.

TWO little girls carried me away to their house and, with the door firmly closed, they lighted the wick of a lamp and wished to dance for me.

Their cheeks were not painted and were brown as their little bellies. They pulled each other by the arms and talked at the same time in an agony of gaiety.

Seated on a mattress raised upon two trestles, Glottis sang in a sharp voice and struck the measures with her sonorous little palms.

Kyse danced shakily, then stopped, suffocated with laughter, took her sister by the breasts, bit her on the shoulder and threw her down like a goat that wishes to play.

THEN Syllikmas entered and, seeing us so familiar, seated herself upon the bench. She took Glottis upon one knee, Kyse on the other, and said:

“Come here, little one.” But I remained away. She resumed: “Art thou afraid of us? Approach, thou: these children love thee. They will teach thee something thou knowest not: the honey of the caresses of a woman.

“Man is violent and lazy. Doubtless thou knowest this. Avoid him. He has a flat chest, a rough skin, short hair, shaggy arms. But women are altogether beautiful.

“Women alone know how to love; stay with us, Bilitis, stay. And if thou hast an ardent soul, thou wilt see thy beauty, as in a mirror, upon the bodies of women, thy lovers.”

I KNOW not whether I should espouse Glottis or Kyse. As they are not like each other, one would not console me for the other, and I fear lest I choose badly.

They each hold one of my hands and one of my breasts also. But to which shall I give my mouth? to which shall I give my heart and all that one cannot divide?

It is shameful to remain thus, all three in one house. They talk of it in Mytilene. Yesterday, before the temple of Ares, a woman who passed did not greet me.

It is Glottis whom I prefer; but I cannot reject Kyse. What would become of her, all alone? Shall I leave them as they were, and take for myself another friend?

I HAVE found her like a treasure, in a field, under a bush of myrtle, enveloped from throat to feet in a yellow peplos broidered with blue.

“I have no friend,” she said; “for the nearest city is forty stadia from here. I live alone with my mother who is a widow and always sad. If thou wishest, I will follow thee.

“I will follow thee to thy house, were it at the other side of the island, and I will live with thee until thou sendest me away. Thy hand is soft and thine eyes are blue.

“Let us go. I carry nothing with me but this little naked Astarte which hangs from my necklace. We will put it near thine and we will give them roses in recompense for each night.”

THE little guardian Astarte which protects Mnasidika was modeled at Camiros by a skilful potter. It is large as a thumb and of fine yellow earth.

Its hair falls back and curls upon its narrow shoulders. Its eyes are cut very long and its mouth is very small. For it is the Most-Beautiful.

With its right hand it points to its delta which is worked with little holes on the lower belly and along the groins. For it is the Most-Amorous-One.

With the left arm it supports its heavy, round breasts. Between its wide hips protrudes a fecund belly. For it is the Mother-Of-All-Things.

SHE entered and passionately, her eyes half closed, she united her lips with mine and our tongues touched each other.... Never was there in my life a kiss like that one.

She stood against me, all love and contentment. One of my knees, little by little, mounted between her hot thighs which gave way as though for a lover.

My hand wandered over her tunic seeking to divine the hidden body which, by turns, undulated, yielding itself, or, arching, stiffened itself with shiverings of the skin.

With her eyes in delirium, she pointed toward the bed; but we had not the right to love before the ceremony of wedding, and we separated brusquely.

IN the morning they had the wedding-feast in the house of Acalanthis whom she had adopted for a mother. Mnasidika wore the white veil and I the male tunic.

Then, amidst twenty women, she put on her robes of festival. Perfumed with Bakkaris, sifted with powder of gold, her cool and animated skin attracted furtive hands.

In her chamber filled with foliage, she waited for me like a spouse. And I carried her away on a chariot between myself and the nymphagogue. One of her little breasts burned in my hand.

They chanted the nuptial song; the flutes played also. I carried Mnasidika under the shoulders and under the knees and we passed over the threshold covered with roses.

I WILL leave the bed as she has left it, unmade and rumpled, the covers mingled, in order that the form of her body may remain impressed beside mine.

Until tomorrow I will not go to the bath, I I will not wear any garments, I will not comb my hair, for fear lest I efface her caresses.

This morning, I will not eat, nor this evening, and upon my lips I will place neither rouge nor powder, in order that her kiss may remain.

I will leave the shutters closed and I will not open the door for fear lest the remembrance which she has left fly out upon the wind.

FORMERLY I was amorous of the beauty of young men, and the remembrance of their words kept me awake.

I remember having graven a name in the bark of a plane-tree. I remember having left a strip of my tunic in a path where someone would pass.

I remember having loved.... O Pannychis, my babe, in what hands have I left thee? how, O unfortunate one, have I abandoned thee?

Today, and forever, Mnasidika alone possesses me. What she receives as a sacrifice is the happiness of those whom I have deserted for her.

MNASIDIKA took me by the hand and led me outside the gates of the city to a little uncultivated field where there was a marble stèle. And she said: “This was the lover of my mother.”

Then I felt a great shiver and still holding her hand, I leaned on her shoulder in order to read the four lines between the broken cup and the serpent:

“It is not death which has carried me away, but the Nymphs of the fountains. I rest here under the light earth with the severed hair of Xantho. Let her alone weep for me. I tell not my name.”

For a long time we remained standing, and we did not pour a libation. For how could we call an unknown soul from the throngs of Hades?

SO that Mnasidika may be protected by the gods, I have sacrificed to the Aphrodite-who-loves-the-smiles, two male hares and two doves.

And I have sacrificed to Ares two cocks armed for fighting, and to sinister Hecate two dogs that howled under the knife.

And it is not without reason that I have implored these three immortals, for Mnasidika carries on her countenance the reflection of their triple divinity.

Her lips are red like copper, her hair bluish like iron and her eyes black like silver.

THY feet are more delicate than those of silvery Thetis. Between thy crossed arms thou unitest thy breasts, cradling them softly like the bodies of two fair doves.

Beneath thy hair thou dissemblest thy moist eyes, thy trembling mouth and the pink flowers of thine ears; but nothing stops my regard nor the warm breath of my kiss.

For, in the secret of thy body, it is thou, Mnasidika, beloved, who hidest the cave of the nymphs of which old Homer spoke, the place where the naiads weave their purple linens.

The place where glide, drop by drop, the inexhaustible springs and where the gate of the North lets men descend and the gate of the South lets immortals enter.

CAREFULLY, with one hand, she opened her tunic and offered me her warm, sweet breasts, as one would offer to the goddess a pair of living turtle-doves.

“Love them well,” she said to me; “I love them so much! They are dear, the little babes. I busy myself with them when I am alone. I play with them; I give them pleasure.

“I douche them with milk. I powder them with flowers. My soft hair which drys them is dear to their little points. I caress them, and shiver. I enfold them in wool.

“Because I shall never have children, be their nursling, my love, and because they are so far from my mouth, give them kisses for me.”

I HAVE given her a doll, a doll of wax with cheeks of roses. Its arms are attached by little pegs and its legs can be moved.

When we are together, she couches it between us, and it is our child. In the evening she cradles it and gives it the breast before putting it to sleep.

She has woven it three little tunics and we gave it jewels on the day of the Aphrodisian Festival; jewels and flowers also.

She watches over its virtue, and will not let it go out without her; not in the sun, above all, for the little doll would melt into drops of wax.

SWEETLY close thine arms, like a girdle about me. O touch, touch my skin thus! Neither water nor the breeze of noon-tide are so soft as thy hand.

Today, endear me, little sister, it is thy turn. Remember thou the tendernesses which I taught thee in the night past, and kneel thou silently near me, for I am wearied.

Thy lips descend upon my lips. All thine unbound hair follows them like a caress after a kiss. It glides over my left breast, it hides thine eyes from me.

Give me thy hand, it is hot! Press mine; hold it always. Hands better than the mouths unite, and their passion is equalled by nothing.

MORE than her balls or her doll, I am for her a game. With all parts of my body, she amuses herself like a child, through the long hours, without speaking.

She loosens my hair and reforms it according to her caprice, knotting it under my chin like a thick cloth, or twisting it upon the nape of my neck, or braiding it to the end.

She regards with astonishment the color of my lashes, the folds of my neck. Sometimes she makes me kneel and place my hands upon the bed:

Then (it is one of her games) she slips her little head underneath and imitates the trembling kid which sucks from the belly of its mother.

UNDER the cover of transparent wool, we slipped, she and I. Even our heads were covered, and the lamp shone through the cloth above us.

Thus I saw her dear body in a mysterious light. We were very near, one to the other, more free, more intimate, more naked. “In the same shift,” she said.

We had left our hair bound up in order to be still more uncovered, and in the close air of the bed, the odors of two women ascended, of two natural cassolets.

Nothing in the world, not even the lamp, saw us that night. Which of us was loved, she alone, and I, could say. But the men know nothing of it.

SHE sleeps in her unbound hair, her hands joined behind her neck. Does she dream? Her mouth is open; she breathes gently.

With a bit of white swan, I dry off the perspiration of her arms, the fever of her cheeks, but without awakening her. Her closed eyelids are two blue flowers.

Very softly, I will raise myself; I will go · to draw water, to milk the cow and ask fire of the neighbors. I would arrange my hair and dress before she opens her eyes.

Sleep, dwell for long between her fair, curved eyelids, and continue the happy night with a dream of good augury.

I WILL kiss, from one end to the other, the long dark wings spreading from thy neck, O sweet bird, captive dove, whose heart bounds beneath my hand.

I will take thy lips within my lips as an infant takes the breast of its mother. Shudder!... for the kiss penetrates profoundly and is sufficient to thy love.

I will move my tongue lightly along thine arms, and upon thy neck; and I will wind along thy sensitive sides the lengthening caress of my nails.

Hear, roaring in thine ears, all the rumor of the sea.... Mnasidika! thy look makes me suffer. Like thy lips, I would close thy burning eyelids with my kiss.

DO not arrange thy hair, for fear lest the over-heated iron burn thy neck or thy locks. Leave it upon thy shoulders and spread over thine arms.

Do not dress thyself, for fear lest the girdle redden the slender folds of thy hips. Remain naked like a little girl.

Do not even rise, for fear lest thy fragile feet be injured in walking. Repose in the bed, O victim of Eros, and I will dress thy poor wound.

For I would not see upon thy body other marks, Mnasidika, than the blemish of an over-long kiss, the scratch of a sharp nail, or the reddening bar of my embrace.

LOVE me, not with smiles, flutes, or plaited flowers, but with thy heart and thy tears, as I love thee with my breast and my lamentations.

When thy breasts alternate with my breasts, when I feel thy life touching my life, when thy knees stand up behind me, then my panting mouth knows not how more to unite with thine.

Clasp me as I clasp thee! See, the lamp has died out, we turn and twist in the night; but I press thy moving body and I hear thy perpetual plaint....

Moan! moan! moan! O woman! Eros leads us in sorrow. Thou wilt suffer less on the bed in bringing a child into the world than when giving birth to thy love.

BREATHLESS, I take her hand and apply it forcibly to the moist skin of my left breast. And I turn my head here and there and I move my lips without speaking.

My excited heart, abrupt and hard, beats and beats in my breast as an imprisoned satyr would knock, imprisoned in a leathern bottle. She says to me: “Thy heart makes thee ill....”

“O Mnasidika,” I respond, “the heart of a woman is not there. That is only a poor bird, a dove which stirs its feeble wings. The heart of a woman is more terrible.

“Like a little myrtle berry, it burns with a red flame and under an abundant foam. It is there that I feel myself bitten by voracious Aphrodite.”

WE rest, our eyes closed, the silence is deep about our couch. Ineffable Nights of summer! But she, believing me asleep, lays her warm hand upon my arm.

She murmurs: “Bilitis, thou sleepest?” My heart throbs, but, without response, I respire regularly like a woman couched in dreams. Then she begins to speak:

“Because thou hearest me not,” she says, “ah! how I love thee!” And she repeats my name: “Bilitis.... Bilitis....” And she touches me with the tips of her trembling fingers.

“It is mine, this mouth! mine alone! Is there another so beautiful in the world? Ah! my happiness, my happiness! Mine are these naked arms, this neck and hair....”

SHE has gone out, she is far away, but I see her, for all things in this chamber are full of her, all are related to her, and I, like the rest.

This bed still warm, over which I pass my mouth, is impressed with the form of her body. On this soft pillow has lain her little head enveloped in her hair.

There is the basin in which she has bathed, the comb which has penetrated the knots of her tangled hair. These slippers long for her naked feet. The pockets of gauze enclosed her breasts.

But that which I dare not touch with my finger is the mirror in which she viewed her hot bruises and in which, perhaps, still exists the reflection of her moist lips.

ALAS! if I think of her, my throat becomes dry, my head droops, my breasts grow hard and pain me, I shiver and I weep as I walk.

If I see her, my heart stops, my hands tremble, my feet grow cold, the crimson of fire mounts to my cheeks, my temples throb grievously.

If I touch her, I become mad, my arms weaken, my knees swoon. I fall before her and lie like a woman about to die.

Always, whenever she speaks to me, I feel myself wounded. Her love is torture and the passers-by hear my plaints.... Alas! How can I call her Well-Beloved?

THOU art there! Take off thy bandelets and thy clasps and thy tunic. Remove even thy sandals, even the ribbons of thy legs, even the band of thy breast.

Wash the black from thine eyebrows and the red from thy lips. Efface the white of thy shoulders and uncurl thy hair in the water.

For I would have thee all pure as thou wert born upon the bed at the feet of thy fecund mother and before thy proud father.

So chaste that my hand in thy hand will make thee redden even to thy lips and one word of mine in thine ear will fill, with an excess of love, thy wandering eyes.

MY little child, so few years have I had only thee: I love thee, not as a lover but as though thou hadst come forth from my laboring entrails.

When, stretched upon my knees, thy two frail arms about me, thou seekest my breast, thy mouth clinging, and press my nipples softly between thy palpitating lips:

Then I dream that, at some time, I have truly nursed this delicate mouth, supple and moist, this vase of crimson myrrhine in which the happiness of Bilitis is mysteriously enclosed.

Sleep. I will cradle thee with one hand upon my knee which rocks thee. Sleep so. I will sing for thee little mournful songs which bring sleep to the newly-born.

AS we were walking on the seashore, without speaking, and enveloped to the chin in our robes of sombre wool, joyous young girls passed by.

“Ah! it is Bilitis and Mnasidika! See, the pretty little squirrel we have caught: it is soft as a bird and timid as a rabbit.

“At Lydia’s house we will put it in a cage, give it plenty of milk with lettuce leaves. It is a female, she will live a long time.”

And the mad ones set out, running. As for us, without speaking, we seated ourselves, I on a rock, she upon the sand, and we gazed at the sea.

GREETING, Bilitis, Mnasidika, greeting.—Be seated. How is thy husband?—Too well. Do not tell him that you have seen me. He would slay me if he knew I had been here.—Have no fear.

“And this is your chamber? and this your bed? Pardon me. I am curious.—Thou knowest, however, the bed of Myrrhina.—So little.—It is said to be pretty.—And lascivious, O my dear! let us not speak of it.

“What wishest thou of me?—That thou lend me....—Speak.—I dare not name the object.—We do not have one.—Truly?—Mnasidika is a virgin.—Then, where can one buy it?—From the harness-maker, Drakon.

“Tell also, where thou buyest thy thread for embroidery? Mine breaks if one looks at it.—I make mine myself, but that which Nais sells is excellent.—At what price?—Three oboli.—It is dear. And the object?—Two drachmæ.—Farewell.”

THE winter is hard, Mnasidika. All is frozen, except our bed. But rise and come with me, for I have lit a great fire with dead twigs and broken wood.

We will warm ourselves, crouching quite naked, our hair upon our backs, and we will drink milk from the same cup and we will eat cakes with honey.

How gay and noisy the flame is! Art thou not too near? Thy skin reddens. Let me kiss it wherever the fire has burned it.

Amidst the ardent firebrands, I will heat the iron and I will dress thy hair here. With dead coals I will write thy name upon the wall.

WHAT dost thou wish? If it must be, I will sell my last jewels so that an attentive slave may wait upon the desire of thine eyes, and every thirst of thy lips.

If the milk of our goats seems insipid to thee, I will hire for thee, as for an infant, a nurse with swollen breasts who will suckle thee each morning.

If our bed seems rough to thee, I will buy thee all the soft cushions, all the coverlets of silk, all the cloths, soft with feathers, of the Amathusian merchants.

All. But I should suffice thee, and though we sleep upon the earth, thou shouldst find it softer than the warm bed of a stranger.

GREAT eyes of Mnasidika, how happy you make me when love darkens your lids and quickens you and shadows you with tears:

But how maddened, when you turn elsewhere, distracted by a woman who passes or by a remembrance which is not mine.

Then my cheeks hollow themselves, my hands tremble and I suffer.... It seems to me from all parts, and before you, my life goes away.

Great eyes of Mnasidika, cease not to regard me! or I will stab you with my needle and then you will see only the terrible night.

ALL, all my life, and my world, and the men, all that is not of her, is nothing. All that is not of her, I give to thee, passer-by.

Does she know the labor I have accomplished to be fair to her eyes, with my hair and with my fards, with my robes and my perfumes?

As long a time I would turn a millstone, I would wield the oar or labor in the earth, if it were a necessary price to retain her here.

But perhaps she will never know, Goddesses who watch over us. The day she learns that I love her, she will seek another woman.

SHE had laughed all the day, and she even had mocked me a little. She had refused to obey me before many strange women.

When we returned, I affected not to speak to her, and, as she cast herself upon my neck, saying: “Thou art offended?” I said to her:

“Ah! thou art not as formerly, thou art not as on the first day. I no longer recognize thee, Mnasidika.” She did not respond to me.

But she put on all the jewels which she had not worn for a long time, and the same yellow robe, broidered with blue, as on the day of our meeting.

“WHERE wast thou?—At the flower merchant’s. I have bought some very beautiful irises. Here they are, I have brought them to thee.—In so long a time thou hast bought four flowers?—The flower-woman detained me.

“Thy cheeks are pale and thine eyes brilliant.—It is fatigue from the walk.—Thy hair is moist and tangled.—It is the heat and the wind which almost blew down my hair.

“Someone has untied thy girdle. I made the knot myself, looser than this one.—So loose that it became undone; a slave who passed retied it for me.

“There is a spot upon thy robe.—It is water which has fallen from the flowers.—Mnasidika, my little soul, thine irises are fairer than any in all Mytilene.—That I know well, that I know well.”

THE sun has passed all the night among the dead while I have waited, seated upon my bed, weary from watching. The wick of the exhausted lamp has burned to the end.

She will never return: there is the last star. I know well that she will never return. I know even the name that I hate. Nevertheless, I still wait.

That she would come now! yes, that she would come, her hair disordered and without roses, her robe soiled, spotted, rumpled, her tongue dry and her eyelids black!

When she opened the door, I would say to her.... But here she is.... It is her robe that I touch, her hands, her hair, her skin! I kiss her with distracted lips, and I weep.

FOR whom, now, shall I paint my lips? For whom shall I polish my nails? For whom shall I perfume my hair?

For whom are my breasts powdered with rouge, if they no longer tempt her? For whom are my arms laved with milk, if they may never more embrace her?

How can I sleep? How can I lay myself upon the bed? In the evening my hand, in all my bed, could not find her warm hand.

I dare not return to my house, to the chamber so frightfully empty. I dare not reopen the door. I dare not even reopen mine eyes.

THAT is impossible, impossible. I supplicate thee upon my knees, with tears, all the tears I have wept over this horrible letter, not to abandon me thus.

Consider thou how terrible it is to lose thee forever for a second time, after having had the great joy of hoping to reconquer thee. Ah! my love! thou knowest not to what point I have adored thee!

Listen to me. Consent to see me one time more. Wilt thou be, tomorrow, at sundown, before thy door? Tomorrow, or the day following. I will come to take thee. Do not refuse me that.

Perhaps the last time, so, but still for this once, for this one time! I demand it of thee, I beg it of thee, and know that, upon thy reply, the rest of my life depends.

THOU wast jealous of us, Gyrinno, too ardent girl. How many garlands didst thou suspend from the knocker of our door! Thou didst wait for us in the passage, and thou didst follow us in the street.

Now thou art, according to thy vows, extended upon the loved place and thy head is upon the pillow about which floats the odor of another woman. Thou art larger then she was. Thy different body startles me.

See! I have yielded at last. Yes, it is I. Thou mayest play with my breasts, caress my belly, open my knees. My entire body is delivered to thy tireless lips—alas!

Ah! Gyrinno! with love my tears also overflow! Wipe them with thy hair; do not kiss them, my dear; and enlace me yet closer to subdue my tremblings.

AGAIN! enough of sighs and stretching arms! Recommence! Thinkest thou, then, that love is a recreation? Gyrinno, it is a task, and of all the most rude.

Awaken, thou! Thou shall not sleep! What to me are thy blue eyelids and the bar of pain which burns thy thin legs. Astarte seethes in my loins.

We entered our couch with the twilight. Behold already the wicked dawn; but I am not wearied with so little. I will not sleep before the second evening.

I will not sleep; neither shalt thou sleep. Oh! how bitter is the taste of morning! Gyrinno, realize it. The embraces are more difficult, but stranger and softer.

THINK not that I have loved thee. I have eaten thee like a ripe fig, I have drunk thee like an ardent water, I have carried thee about me like a girdle of skin.

I have amused myself with thy body, because thou hast short hair, pointed breasts upon thy lean chest, and nipples black like two little dates.

Like water and fruits, a woman is also necessary, but already I have forgotten thy name, thou who hast passed through my arms like the shadow of another adored one.

Between thy flesh and mine, a burning dream has possessed me. I pressed thee upon me as upon a wound and I cried: Mnasidika! Mnasidika! Mnasidika!

“WHAT wishest thou, old woman?—To console thee.—It is useless trouble.—They have told me that since thy parting thou goest from love to love without finding forgetfulness or peace. I have come to offer thee someone.

“Speak.—It is a young slave, born at Sardis. She has no equal in the world for she is at the same time man and woman, although her chest and her long hair and her clear voice produce the illusion.

“Her age?—Sixteen years.—Her form?—Large. She has known no one here except Psappha who loves her desperately and would buy her of me for twenty minæ. If thou wouldst hire her, she is thine.—And what will I do with her?

“Behold, for twenty two nights I have essayed in vain to escape my memories.... Done, I take this one more, but warn the poor little one that she be not frightened if I sob in her arms.”

I REMEMBER ... (at what hour of the day is it not before my eyes!) I remember the manner in which She lifted her hair with her slender fingers so pale.

I remember one night which she passed, her cheek upon my breast, so softly that happiness held me awake, and the day following she had upon her face the mark of my rounded nipple.

I see her holding her cup of milk and regarding me sideways, with a smile. I see her, powdered, her hair dressed, opening her great eyes before her mirror and retouching with her finger the red of her lips.

And, above all, if my despair is a perpetual torture, it is because I know, moment by moment, how she swoons in the arms of another, and what she demands of her and what she gives.

DOLL of wax, dear plaything which she called her child, she has wearied of thee also and she has forgotten thee like myself, who, with her, was thy father or thy mother, I know not which.

The pressure of her lips has discolored thy little cheeks; and on thy left hand see the broken finger which made her weep so much. This little cyclas which thou wearest, it was she who broidered it for thee.

She said thou couldst already read. Nevertheless thou wert not weaned, and in the evening, bending over thee, she opened her tunic and gave thee the breast, “so that thou wouldst not cry,” she said.

Doll, if I wished to see her again, I would give thee to Aphrodite, as the dearest of my gifts. But I would rather think that she is wholly dead.

SING a funeral chant, muses of Mytilene, sing! The earth is sombre like a vestment of mourning and the yellow trees shiver like shaken hair.

Heraios! O sweet and sorrowful month! the leaves fall gently like snow, the sun penetrates deeply into the thinning forest.... I hear nothing more, save the silence.

Behold, they have carried Pittakos, laden with years, to the tomb. Many are dead of those I knew. And she who lives is to me as though she were no longer.

This is the tenth autumn I have seen dying upon this plain. It is time that I also vanished away. Weep for me, muses of Mytilene, weep upon my steps!

MOTHER inexhaustible, incorruptible, creatrix, first-born, self-engendered, self-created, issue of thyself alone and delight of thyself, Astarte!

O perpetually fecund, O virgin and nurse of all, chaste and lascivious, pure and fruitive, ineffable, nocturnal, soft, breather of fire, foam of the sea!

Thou who accordest favors in secret, thou who unitest, thou who lovest, thou who graspest the multiple races of savage beasts in furious desire and joinest the sexes in the forests!

O Astarte, irresistible, hear me, take me, possess me, O moon, and, thirteen times each year, draw from my entrails the libation of my blood!

THE black masses of the trees are immovable as the mountains. The stars fill the immense sky. A warm breeze like a human breath caresses my eyes and my cheeks.

O Night, who givest birth to the Gods! how sweet thou art upon my lips! how warm thou art in my hair! how thou enterest into me now, and how I feel myself pregnant with all thy springtime!

The flowers that shall blossom shall all be born of me. The wind that respires is my breath. The perfume that passes is my desire. All the stars are in my eyes.

Thy voice, is it the roar of the sea? Is it the silence of the plain? Thy voice; I comprehend it not, but it bends my head to my feet, and my tears lave my two hands.

THROUGH the forests that dominate the sea, the Menades are rushing. Maskale, with hot breasts, shrieks, brandishing the phallos of sycamore smeared with vermilion.

All, under their bassaris skins and their crowns of vine branches, run and cry and leap, the crotales clapping in their hands, and the thyrses cracking the skins of the resounding drums.

With wetted hair, agile legs, reddened and pushing breasts, sweating cheeks, foaming lips, O Dionysos, they offer thee, in return, the love thou hast cast within them.

And the wind of the sea lifts toward the sky the ruddy hair of Helikomis, twisting it like a furious flame upon a torch of white wax.

UPON the highest promontory, I stretched myself out. The sea was black like a field of violets. The milky-way gushed out from the great divine breast.

A thousand Menades slept about me in the mangled flowers. The long grasses mingled with their hair. And then, behold, the sun was born from the waters of the east.

They were the same waters and the same shores that, one day, saw appear the white body of Aphrodite.... Suddenly, I hid my eyes in my hands.

For I saw, trembling upon the water, a thousand tiny lips of light: the pure sex or the smile of Cypris Philommeïdes.

THE priestesses of Astarte make love at the rising of the moon; then they arise and bathe in a vast basin with a marge of silver.

With their curved fingers, they comb their hair, and their hands, tinted with crimson, blended with their black curls, seem like branches of coral in a sombre and wavering sea.

They never depilate themselves, so that the triangle of die goddess is marked on their belly as on a temple; but they paint themselves with brushes and perfume themselves deeply.

The priestesses of Astarte make love at the setting of the moon; then, in a carpeted hall where burns a tall lamp of gold, they lie down at random.

WITHIN the enclosure thrice mysterious, where the men never enter, we have made a festival for thee, Astarte of the Night, Mother of the World, Fountain of the Life of the Gods!

I will reveal something, but not more than is permitted. About a phallos crowned, an hundred women rocked, shrieking. The initiates wore the habits of men, the others the divided tunics.

The smoke of perfumes, the fumes of torches, wavered between us like clouds. I wept burning tears. All, at the feet of the Berbeia; we cast ourselves upon our backs.

At last when the religious Act was consummated, and when, in the Unique Triangle, had been plunged the crimson phallos, the mystery commenced; but I will tell no more.

I HAVE been, with Plango, among the Egyptian courtesans, at the highest part of the old city. They have amphoras of earth, plates of copper and yellow matting where they squat without strain.

Their chambers are silent, without angles and without corners, so much their successive couches of blue limestone have blunted the pillars and rounded the base of the walls.

They sit immobile, their hands resting upon their knees. When they offer pudding they murmur: “Happiness.” And when one thanks them, they say: “Grace to thee.”

They understand Hellene and feign to speak it badly so as to laugh at us in their own tongue; but we, a tooth for a tooth, we speak Lydian and they are suddenly uneasy.

SURELY I will not sing of celebrated past lovers. If they are no more, why speak of them? Am I not like them? Have I not enough to think of in myself?

I will forget thee, Pasiphae, although thy passion was extreme. I will not praise thee, Syrinx, nor thee, Byblis, nor thee, by the goddess chosen before all, Helene of the white arms!

If someone has suffered, I feel not the pain. If someone has loved, I have loved more. I sing of my flesh and my life, and not of the sterile shadow of buried loves.

Rest upon the bed, O my body, according to thy voluptuous mission! Taste thy daily enjoyments and the passions without a tomorrow. Leave not a joy unknown to be regretted upon the day of thy death.

I WILL perfume all my skin in order to attract lovers. Upon my fair legs, in a basin of silver, I will pour the spikenard of Tarsos and the metopion of Egypt.

Upon my arms, crushed mint; upon my lashes and upon my eyes sweet-marjoram of Kôs. Slave, loosen my hair and fill it with the smoke of incense.

Here is oinanthe from the mountains of Cypros; I will let it slip between my breasts; the liquor of roses which comes from Phaselis shall perfume my neck and my cheeks.

And now, pour upon my loins the irresistible bakkaris. It is better, for a courtesan, to know the perfumes of Lydia than the ways of the Peloponnesus.

“GOOD morning.—Good morning also.—Thou art in a great hurry.—Perhaps less than thou thinkest.—Thou art a pretty girl.—Perhaps more so than thou believest.

“What is thy charming name?—I tell it not so quickly.—Thou hast someone this evening?—Always there is my lover.—And how dost thou love him?—As he wishes.

“Let us sup together.—If thou desirest. But what givest thou?—This.—Five drachmæ? It is for my slave. And for me?—Say it thyself.—An hundred.

“Where livest thou?—In this blue house.—At what hour may I send to seek thee?—At once, if thou wishest.—At once.—Go before.”

“HOLLA! by the two goddesses, who is the insolent one who has put his foot upon my robe?—It is a lover.—It is a blockhead.—I have been awkward, pardon me.

“Imbecile! my yellow robe is all torn in the back, and if I walk thus in the street, they will take me for a poor girl who serves Cypris inversely.

“Wilt thou not stop?—I believe that he speaks to me again!—Why dost thou leave me, thus angered?... Thou respondest not? Alas! I dare speak no more.

“I certainly must return to my house to change my robe.—And may I not follow thee? Who is thy father?—He is the rich captain Nikias.—Thou hast fair eyes, I pardon thee.”

A DIADEM of fretted gold crowns my straight, white forehead. Five chains of gold that follow the curve of my cheeks and chin, are suspended from my hair by two large clasps.

Upon my arms, which Iris would envy, thirteen silver bracelets twine. How heavy they are! But they are weapons; and I know one enemy who has suffered from them.

I am truly all covered with gold. My breasts are cuirassed with two pectorals of gold. The images of the gods have not more riches than I have.

And I wear upon my heavy robe, a girdle of silver plates. There thou canst read this verse: “Love me eternally; but be not afflicted if I deceive thee three times each day.”

SINCE he has entered my chamber, whoever he may be (that is his concern): “See,” I say to my slave, “what a handsome man! and should not a courtesan be happy?”

I declare he is Adonis, Ares or Herakles, according to his countenance, or the Old Man of the Sea if his hair is pale silver. And then, what disdain for trifling youth!

“Ah!” I say, “if I had not to pay my florist and my goldsmith tomorrow, how I would love to say to thee: I do not wish thy gold! I am thy passionate servant!”

Then, when he has closed his arms under my shoulders, I see a boatman of the port pass like a divine image over the starry sky of my transparent lids.

“PURE water of the basin, immobile mirror, tell me of my beauty.—Bilitis, or whoever thou art, Tethys perhaps, or Amphitrite, thou art beautiful, thou knowest.

“Thy face inclines beneath thy thick hair, which is heavy with flowers and perfumes. Thy soft eyelids scarcely open, and thy flanks are weary from the movements of love.

“Thy body, fatigued with the weight of thy breasts, carries the fine marks of nails and the blue stains of the kiss. Thine arms are reddened by the embrace. Each line of thy skin was loved.”

“Clear water of the basin, thy freshness brings repose. Receive me, who am truly wearied. Take away the fard of my cheeks and the sweat of my body and the remembrance of the night.”

UPON a white terrace, in the night, they abandoned us, swooning among the roses. The warm perspiration slipped away like tears from our armpits over our breasts. Overwhelming voluptuousness purpled our thrownback heads.

Four captive doves, bathed in four perfumes, fluttered above us in the silence. From their wings, drops of perfume fell upon the naked women. I was covered with the essence of iris.

O lassitude! I rested my cheek upon the belly of a young girl who enveloped herself in the cool of my moist hair. The perfume of her saffroned skin intoxicated my opened mouth. She closed her thighs about my neck.

I slept, but an exhausting dream awakened me: the inyx, bird of nocturnal desires, sang distractedly from afar. I coughed with a shiver. Little by little, a languishing arm like a flower raised itself in the air toward the moon.

INNKEEPER, we are four. Give us a chamber and two beds. It is now too late to return to the city and the rain has broken the road.

Bring a basket of figs, some cheese, and dark wine; but first remove my sandals and lave my feet, for the mud tickles me.

Have brought into the chamber, two basins with water, a full lamp, a crater and kylix. Shake thou the covers and beat the cushions.

But let the beds be of good maple, and the planks noiseless! Tomorrow thou needst not awaken us.

FOUR slaves guard my house: two robust Thracians at my door, a Sicilian in my kitchen and a docile and silent Phrygian woman for the service of my bed.

The two Thracians are handsome men. Each has a staff in his hand to chase away poor lovers and a hammer to nail upon the wall the wreaths which are sent me.

The Sicilian is a rare cook; I paid twelve minæ for her. No other knows as she does how to prepare fried croquettes and cakes of poppy.

The Phrygian bathes me, dresses my hair and depilates me. She sleeps in the morning in my chamber, and three nights each month, she takes my place with my lovers.

CHILD, guard well the door, and let no passer-by enter, for I and six girls with beautiful arms would bathe ourselves in secret in the warm water of the basin.

We would only laugh and swim. Let the lovers stay in the street. We will dip our legs in the water and, seated on the marble brink, we will play with dice.

We will play also with the ball. Let no lovers enter; our hair is too wet; our throats are all goose-flesh and the ends of our fingers are wrinkled.

Moreover, he would repent it, who surprised us naked! Bilitis is not Athena, but she shows herself only at her hours and chastises too ardent eyes.

FLOWERS of flesh, O my breasts! how rich in voluptuousness you are! My breasts in my hands, how soft you are, how gently warm, how youthfully perfumed!

Formerly, you were frozen like the breast of a statue and hard as the insensible marble. Since you have softened, I cherish you more, you who have been so loved.

Your sleek, rounded forms are the honor of my brown torso. When I imprison you in bands of gold or when I deliver you all naked, you precede me with your splendor.

Therefore be happy, this night. If my fingers give forth caresses, you alone will know them until tomorrow morning; for, this night, Bilitis has paid Bilitis.

MYDZOURIS, little filth, weep not. Thou art my friend. If the women insult thee again, it is I who will answer them. Come into my arms and dry thine eyes.

Yes, I know thou art a horrible child and that thy mother taught thee early to prove thy courage in all things. But thou art young and therefore thou canst do nothing that is not charming.

The mouth of a girl of fifteen remains pure in spite of all. The lips of a gray-headed woman, although virgin, are degraded; for the only disgrace is to grow old and we are blemished only when we become wrinkled.

Mydzouris, I admire thy frank eyes, thine impudent and bold name, thy laughing voice and thy light body. Come to my house, thou shalt be my aid, and when we go out together, the women shall say to thee: Greeting.

IN the procession they have carried me in triumph, me, Bilitis, all naked upon a shell-like car upon which slaves, during the night, had placed ten thousand roses.

I reclined, my hands under my neck, my feet alone clad in gold, and my body outstretched softly upon the bed of my warm hair mingled with the cool petals.

Twelve children, with wingèd shoulders, served me as a goddess; one of them held a shade, the others showered me with perfume or burned incense in the prow.

And about me I heard rustling the ardent murmur of the multitude, whilst the breath of desire floated about my nudity, in the blue mist of the aromatics.

O VENERABLE Priapos, god of the woods, whom I have fastened in the marble border of my bath, it is not without reason, guardian of the orchards, that thou shouldst watch here over the courtesans.

God, we have not bought thee to sacrifice our virginities to thee. No one can give that which is no more, and the zealots of Pallas run not the streets of Amathus.

No. Formerly thou didst watch over the leafy hair of the trees, over the wet flowers, over the heavy and savory fruits. It is for that we have chosen thee.

Guard thou today our blond heads, the opened poppies of our lips and the violets of our eyes. Guard the firm fruit of our breasts and give us lovers who resemble thee.

THOU attachest to thy light hands the resounding crotales, Myrrhinidion my dear, and, almost naked from thy robe, thou extendest thy nervous limbs. How pretty thou art, thine arms in the air, thy loins arched and thy breasts reddened!

Thou commencest: thy feet, one before the other, pose, hesitate, and glide softly. Thy body bends like a scarf, thou caressest thy shivering skin, and voluptuousness inundates thy long, swooning eyes.

Suddenly thou strikest the crotales! Arch thyself, erect upon thy feet, shake thy loins, advance thy legs and let thy hands, filled with noise, call all the desires in a band about thy turning body.

We, we applaud with great cries, whether, smiling over thy shoulder, thou agitatest with a shiver thy convulsed muscular croup, or whether thou undulatest, almost extended, to the rhythm of thy memories.

MELIXO, thy legs joined, thy body inclined, thine arms forward, thou slippest thy light double-flute between thy lips moist with wine, and thou playest about the couch where Teleas still embraces me.

Am I not most imprudent, I who hire so young a girl to distract my hours of labor? I who show her thus naked to the curious looks of my lovers, am I not careless?

No, Melixo, little musician, thou art an honest friend. Yesterday thou didst not refuse to change thy flute for another when I despaired of accomplishing a love full of difficulties. But thou art safe.

For I know well of what thou thinkest. Thou awaitest the end of this night of excesses which animates thee cruelly and in vain, and, at the first dawn, thou wilt run in the street, with thine only friend Psyllos, to thy little broken mattress.

“THOU thinkest thou lovest me no longer, Teleas, and since a month thou hast passed thy nights at the table, as though the fruits, the wines, the honey, could make thee forget my lips. Thou thinkest that thou lovest me no longer, poor fool!”

Saying that, I loosened my moist girdle and I rolled it about his head. It was still quite warm with the heat of my body; the perfume of my skin issued from its fine meshes.

He breathed it deeply, his eyes closed, then I felt that he returned to me and I even saw very clearly his reawakening desires that he hid not from me, but, as a ruse, I resisted him.

“No, my friend. This evening, Lysippos possesses me. Farewell!” And I added, as I fled: “O gormand of fruits and greens! the little garden of Bilitis has only one fig, but it is good.”

I ENVY thee, Agorakrites, for having a wife so zealous. It is she herself who attends to the stable, and in the morning, in place of making love, she gives drink to the cattle.

Thou shouldst rejoice in her. How many others, wouldst thou say, dream of base pleasures, waking the night, sleeping the day, and yet demanding from adultery a criminal satiety?

Yes; thy wife labors in the stable. They say even that she has a thousand tendernesses for the youngest of thine asses. Ah! Ha! there is a good animal. He has a black spot over his eyes.

They say that she plays between his hoofs, under his soft gray belly.... But those who say that are slanderers. If thine ass pleases her, Agorakrites, it is without doubt that she recalls thy look in his.

THE love of women is the most beautiful of all that mortals experience, and thou wouldst think so, Kleo, if thou hadst a truly voluptuous soul; but thou dreamest only vanities.

Thou losest thy nights in cherishing youths who are ungrateful to us. Therefore regard them! How ugly they are! Compare to their round heads, our thick hair; seek our white breasts upon their chests.

Beside their narrow flanks, consider our luxuriant hips, broad, hollowed couches for lovers. Say, above all, what human lips, except hers who wishes it, can elaborate the pleasures?

Thou art sick, O Kleo, but a woman can cure thee. Go to young Satyra, the daughter of my neighbor Gorgo. Her croup is a rose of the sun, and she will not refuse thee the pleasure she herself prefers.

WHY I have become Lesbian, O Bilitis, thou askest? But what player of the flute is not, a little? I am poor; I have no bed; I lie with her who wishes me and I thank her with what I have.

While yet small, we dance naked; those dances, thou knowest them, my dear: the twelve desires of Aphrodite. We regard each other, we compare our nudities and we find them so pretty.

During the long night, we inflame ourselves for the pleasure of the spectators; but our ardor is not feigned and we feel it so much that sometimes, behind the doors one of us may animate her companion who consents.

How then can we love a man who is rough with us? He seizes us as girls and leaves us before the delight. Thou, thou art a woman, thou knowest what I mean. Thou canst take it as for thyself.

“OLD woman, hear me. I give a festival in three days. It is to divert me. Thou wilt lend me all thy girls. How many hast thou, and what can they do?”

“I have seven. Three dance the Kordax with the scarf and the phallos. Nephele of the sleek armpits will mimic the love of doves between her rosy breasts.

“One singer in a broidered peplos will chant the songs of Rhodes, accompanied by two auletrides who will have garlands of myrtle rolled about their brown legs.”

“It is well. See that they be freshly depilated, laved and perfumed from head to foot, ready for other games if they are demanded. Go give the orders. Farewell.”

IN a debauch that two young men and some courtesans made at my house, where love gushed out like wine, Damalis, in honor of her name, danced the Figure of Pasiphae.

She had caused to be made at Kition two masks of a cow and of a bull, for herself and for Karmantidea. She wore terrible horns, and a hairy tail upon her croup.

The other women, led by me, held the flowers and the torches, and we turned about ourselves with cries and we caressed Damalis with the tips of our pendent tresses.

Their lowings and our songs and the dancing of our loins lasted longer than the night. The empty chamber is still warm. I regard my reddened knees and the canthares of Kôs where the roses float.

WHEN the first dawn blended with the feeble glimmer of the torches, I sent into the orgie a flute-player, vicious and agile, who trembled a little, being cold.

Praise the little girl of the blue lids, of the short hair, of the sharp breasts, clad only in a girdle from which hung yellow ribbons and the stems of black iris.

Praise her! for she was adroit and performed difficult tricks. She juggled with hoops, without breaking anything in the room, she glided through them like a grasshopper.

Sometimes she made a wheel, bending upon her hands and feet. Or, with her two legs in the air and her knees apart, she curved herself backward and touched the ground, laughing.

ANTHIS, dancing-girl of Lydia, has seven veils about her. She unrolls the yellow veil, her black hair spreads out. The rosy veil slips from her mouth. The white veil falls, revealing her naked arms.

She releases her little breasts from the red veil that unties itself. She lets fall the green veil from her double, rounded croup. She draws the blue veil from her shoulders, but she presses upon her puberty the last transparent veil.

The young men supplicate her; she tosses her head backward. Only at the sound of the flutes, she tears it a little, then, suddenly, and with the gestures of the dance, she culls the flowers of her body.

Singing: “Where are my roses? where are my perfumed violets! Where are my tufts of parsley!—Behold my roses, I give them to you. Behold my violets, will you have them? Behold my fair curled parsley.”

NO, thou shalt not take me by force, count not on that, Lamprias. If thou hast heard it said that someone violated Parthenis, know that she gave herself, for one plays not with us without being invited.

Oh! do thy best, make efforts. See: it is a failure. I scarcely defend myself, yet. I will not call for help. And I do not even struggle; but I stir. Poor friend, it is a failure again.

Continue. This little game amuses me. The more as I am sure to conquer. Again an unhappy essay, and perhaps thou wilt be less disposed to show me thine extinguished desires.

Butcher, what doest thou! Cur! thou wilt break my wrists! and this knee, this knee which opens me! Ah! go, now, it is a fine victory, that of ravishing a young girl, in tears, upon the ground.

THE first gave me a collar, a collar of pearls, worth a city with its palaces and its temples, and its treasures and its slaves.

The second made verses for me. He said that my tresses were black as those of the night and my eyes blue as those of the morning.

The third was so beautiful that his mother could not embrace him without reddening. He put his hands upon my knees and his lips upon my naked foot.

Thou, thou hast told me nothing, thou hast given me nothing, for thou art poor. And thou art not beautiful, but it is thee I love.

IF thou wouldst be loved by a woman, O young friend, whoever she may be, tell her not that thou wishest her, but have her see thee every day; then disappear, to return.

If she address her speech to thee, be amorous without eagerness. She, of herself, will come to thee. But thou must take her by force, the day when she intends to give herself.

When thou receivest her in thy bed neglect thine own pleasure. The hands of an amorous woman are trembling and without caresses. Excuse them from being zealous.

But thou, take no repose. Prolong thy kisses to breathlessness. Allow her no sleep, even though she beg it of thee. Kiss always the part of her body toward which she turns her eyes.

MYROMERIS and Maskale, my friends, come with me, for I have no lover this evening and, lying upon beds of byssus, we will converse over our dinner.

A night of repose will do you good; you shall sleep in my bed, even without fards and with unkempt hair. Wear a simple tunic of wool and leave your jewels in their box.

No one shall make you dance to admire your legs and the heavy movements of your loins. No one shall demand the Sacred Figures to judge whether you are amorous.

And I have not commanded for us two flute-players with fair mouths, but two pans of browned peas, cakes of honey, fried croquettes, and my last leathern bottle of Kôs.

HERE lies the delicate body of Lydé, little dove, the most joyous of all the courtesans, who more than all others loved orgies and floating hair, soft dances and tunics of hyacinth.

More than all others she loved the savory glottisms, the caresses upon her cheek, games that only the lamp saw, and love which bruised the limbs. And now she is a little shadow.

But before putting her in the tomb, they have arranged her hair marvelously and laid her in roses; even the stone which covers her is all impregnated with essences and perfumes.

Sacred earth, nurse of all, receive gently the poor dead, let her sleep in thine arms, O Mother! and make to grow about the stèle, not nettles and briers, but tender white violets.

YESTERDAY, Nais said to me, I was in the market when a little girl in red tatters passed, carrying roses, before a group of young men. And this is what I heard:

“Buy something from me.—Explain thyself, little one, for we know not what thou sellest; thyself? thy roses or all at once?—If you will buy from me all these flowers, you may have mine for nothing.

“And how much wishest thou for thy roses?—I must have six oboli for my mother, else I shall be beaten like a bitch.—Follow us. Thou shalt have a drachma.—Then, shall I seek my little sister?”

And both followed those men. They had no breasts, Bilitis. They knew not even how to smile. They trotted along like two kids which one leads to the butcher.

AH! by Aphrodite, behold thee! bloody head! rottenness! infection! sterile one! carcanet! clumsy one! good for nothing! evil sow! Do not try to escape me; come yet nearer.

Behold this woman of the sailors, who knows not even how to fold her garment upon the shoulder and who puts on the fard so badly that the black of her brows runs over her cheek in floods of ink.

Thou art Phœnician: lie with those of thy race. As for me, my father was Hellene: I have right over all those who wear the petasus. And even over the others if it pleases me so.

Stop not in my street or I will send thee to Hades to make love with Karon and I will say very justly: “Let the earth cover thee lightly,” so that the dogs may dig thee out.

I SHIVER; the night is cool, and the forest all wet. Why hast thou led me here? is my great bed not softer than this moss strewn with stones?

My flowery robe will be spotted with verdure; my hair will be tangled with twigs; my neck; look at my neck, already soiled with the damp earth.

Formerly, I followed into the woods he who.... Ah! leave me for a time. I am sad, this evening. Leave me, without speaking, my hand over my eyes.

In truth, canst thou not wait! are we beasts to take each other so! Leave me. Thou shalt not open my knees nor my lips. Even my eyes shall stay closed, lest they weep.

STRANGER, pause; see who is signing to thee: it is little Phanion of Kôs, she merits that thou shouldst choose her.

See, her hair is curled like parsley, her skin is smooth as the down of a bird. She is small and brown. She speaks nicely.

If thou wouldst follow her, she would not demand of thee all the money from thy voyage: no, only a drachma or a pair of slippers.

Thou wilt find that she has a good bed, fresh figs, milk, wine, and, if it be cold, there will be a fire.

PASSER-by who pauses, if thou wishest slender thighs and nervous loins, a firm throat, knees that clasp, go to Plango; she is my friend.

If thou seekest a laughing girl, with exuberant breasts, delicately shaped, the croup plump and the loins hollowed, go to the corner of this street, where Spidhorodellis dwells.

But if long tranquil hours in the arms of a courtesan, soft skin, the warmth of the body and the fragrance of the hair please thee, seek Milto; and thou wilt be content.

Expect not too much from love; but profit from its experience. One may demand all from a woman when she is naked, when it is night, and when the hundred drachmæ are upon the hearth.

“WHO is there?—I am the merchant of women. Open the door, Sostrata, I offer thee two opportunities. This is the first. Approach, Anasyrtolis, and strip thyself.—She is a trifle large.—

“She is a beauty. Besides, she dances the Kordax and she knows eighty songs.—Turn thyself. Raise the arms. Lift the hair. Give me thy foot. Smile. It is good.—

“Now this one.—She is too young!—Not at all, she was twelve years old the day before yesterday and thou wilt teach her nothing.—Remove thy tunic. Let me see? No, she is thin.—

“I demand but one mina.—And the first?—Two minæ, thirty.—Three minæ for the two?—It is said.—Enter here and bathe yourselves. And thou, farewell.”

STRANGER, go not farther into the city. Thou wilt not find elsewhere than with me girls younger or more expert. I am Sostrata, celebrated even beyond the sea.

See this one whose eyes are green as water in the grass. Thou wouldst not have her? Here are other eyes which are black as violets, and hair three cubits long.

I have better still. Xantho, open thy cyclas. Stranger, these breasts are hard as quinces; touch them. And her fair belly, thou seest, carries the three folds of Cypris.

I bought her with her sister who is not yet of the age for love, but who will second her usefully. By the two goddesses! thou art of a noble race. Phyllis and Xantho, follow the illustrious one!

THEY danced, one before the other, with rapid, flying movements; they seemed always wishing to entangle, and yet touched not at all, unless with the tips of their lips.

When they turned their backs in dancing, they looked at each other, the head upon the shoulder, the perspiration gleaming upon their lifted arms, and their fine hair passing over their breasts.

The languor of their eyes, the fire of their cheeks, the gravity of their faces, were three ardent songs. They grazed each other furtively, they bent their bodies upon their hips.

And suddenly they fell, to finish the soft dance upon the earth.... Remembrance of Mnasidika, it was then thou camest to me, and all, except thy dear image, troubled me.

BELIEVE not, Myromeris, that, in becoming a mother, thou hast lessened thy beauty. See how thy body, beneath thy robe, has drowned its slim form in a voluptuous softness.

Thy breasts are two vast flowers, reversed upon thy chest, whose cut stems give out a milky sap. Thy softened belly swoons beneath the hand.

And now consider the tiny babe born of a quiver which thou didst feel, one evening, in the arms of a passer-by whose name thou dost not even know. Dream of her distant destiny.

Her eyes which now scarcely open will one day be elongated by a line of black fard, and they will sow among men sorrow or joy by one movement of their lashes.

HE sleeps. I know him not. He horrifies me. Nevertheless, his purse is filled with gold and he gave four drachmæ to the slave on entering. I expect a mina for myself.

But I told the Phrygian to enter the bed in my place. He was drunk and took her for me. I would rather die in torment than stretch myself out near this man.

Alas! I dream of the meadows of Tauros.... I was a little virgin.... Then I had a light heart, and I was so mad with amorous envy that I hated my married sisters.

What would I not have done to obtain that which I have refused this night! Today, my breasts are pliant and in my worn heart, Eros slumbers from lassitude.

I AWAKEN.... Is he then gone! He has left something! No: two empty amphoras and some soiled flowers. All the rug is red with wine.

I have slept, but I am still drunk.... With whom, then, did I return?... At least, we lay down together. The bed is still steeped with sweat.

Perhaps there were several; the bed is so disordered. I know no more.... But someone saw them! There is my Phrygian. She still sleeps across the door.

I give her a kick in the breast and I cry: “Bitch, thou couldst not....” I am so hoarse that I can say no more.

CHILD, do not pass without loving me, I am still beautiful in the night; thou shalt see how much warmer my autumn is than the springtime of another.

Seek not for love from virgins. Love is a difficult art in which young girls are little versed. I have prepared it all my life to give it to my last lover.

My last lover shall be thou; I know it. Behold my mouth, for which a nation has paled with desire. Behold my hair, the same hair that Psappha the Great has sung.

I will gather for thee all that remains of my lost youth. I will burn even the memories. I will give thee the flute of Lykas, the girdle of Mnasidika.

FOR a long time I have been beautiful; the day comes when I shall no longer be a woman. And then I will know heart-rendering memories, burning solitary envy and tears in my hands.

If life is a long dream, of what good to resist? Now, four and five times a night, I demand amorous enjoyment, and when my loins are exhausted, I sink asleep wherever my body falls.

In the morning, I open my eyelids and I shiver in my hair. A dove is upon my window; I ask of her, in what month we are. She says to me: “It is the month when women are in love.”

Ah! whatever be the month, the dove speaks truly, Cypris. And I throw my two arms about my lover, and with great tremblings, I stretch my still benumbed legs to the foot of the bed.

THE night has worn away. The stars are far away. See, the last courtesans have returned with their lovers. And I, in the rain of morning, I write this verse upon the sand.

The leaves are laden with brilliant water. The rivulets across the paths drag along the earth and the dead leaves. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song.

Oh! how sad and alone I am here! The young regard me not; the old have forgotten me. It is well. They will learn my verses, and the children of their children.

That is what neither Myrtale nor Thais nor Glykera may say, the day when their fair cheeks deepen with wrinkles. Those who shall love after me, will sing my strophes together.

APHRODITE; merciless goddess, thou hast willed that, for me also, the happy youth of beautiful hair shall disappear in a few days. Why am I not dead now!

I have regarded myself in my mirror: I have no longer smiles or tears. O sweet face that loved Mnasidika, I cannot believe that thou wast mine.

Can it be that all is ended! I have not yet lived five times eight years; it seems to me that I was born only yesterday, and now, behold, I must say: No one will love me more.

All my cut hair, I have twisted into a girdle, and I offer it to thee, Cypris eternal! I will never cease to adore thee. This is the last verse of the pious Bilitis.

IN the country where the springs rise from the sea, and where the bed of flowers is made of leaves of rock, I, Bilitis, was born.

My mother was Phœnician; my father, Damophylos, Hellene. My mother taught me the songs of Byblos, sad as the first dawn.

I have adored Astarte at Cypros. I have known Psappha at Lesbos. I have sung as I have loved. If I have loved well, Passer-by, tell it to thy daughter.

And sacrifice not for me a black goat; but in soft libation, press her teats above my tomb.

UPON the sombre banks of Melos, at Tamassos of Pamphylia, I, daughter of Damophylos, Bilitis, was born. I repose far from my native land, thou seest.

Even as a child, I learned the loves of Adonis and of Astarte, the mysteries of the holy Serfs, and the death and return to Her-of-the-rounded-eyes.

If I have been a courtesan, what is the harm? Was it not my duty as a woman? Stranger, the Mother-of-all-things guides us. To forget her is not prudent.

In gratitude to thee who hast paused, I wish thee this destiny: Mayest thou be loved, but never love. Farewell; remember thou, in thine old age, that thou hast seen my tomb.

UNDER the black leaves of the laurels, under the amorous blooms of the roses, it is here that I lie, I who have known how to braid line with line, and exalt the kiss.

I grew in the land of the nymphs; I lived in the isle of lovers; I died in the isle of Cypros. It is for this that my name is illustrious and my stèle cleaned with oil.

Weep not for me, thou who pausest; they made me fair funeral rites; the weepers bruised their cheeks; they have laid in my tomb my mirrors and my necklaces.

And now, over the pale meadows of asphodel, I walk, an impalpable shadow, and the remembrance of my earthly life is the joy of my life in the underworld.