Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. You can also use the up (↑) and down (↓) arrows to move a line one place at a time, or the top (⇑) and bottom (⇓) arrows to move a line directly to the top or bottom. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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And leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth.
My hair that loved the wind, were they not worth
That shine with tears. Sappho, you saw the sun
Just now when you came hither; and again,
I woke with lips made quiet by a kiss.
As might a lover, decking you with light.
And I should call the birds with such a voice,
I thought I saw him stand, the man I love,
Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love—
Sappho, lean down.
They sent you in to say farewell to me,
I am alone, alone. O Cyprian…
Nor of my songs, if Time shall blow them back,
He would not love me now though Cypris bound
Along the bright wet beaches, scattering
You who can set your sorrow to a song
Into oblivion. What do I care
I have no care what place the grains may fall,
Fixed on me as I entered, while he drew
And he will pass to-night when all the air
I should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass,
The kiss I gave them.
When you have left me, all the shimmering
If I could see the sun, I should look up
To please Apollo since Love does not hear?
So sadly on me with your shining eyes,
Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.
But you will live to love and love again.
Sappho, tell me this,
Drives stinging over me and bears away.
And drink the light until my eyes were blind;
Here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes
Is blue with twilight; but I shall not see.
As land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam
But you will not assuage him. He alone
It takes my life and gives me only a dream.
I loved too much to live. Go Sappho, go—
Go from me, Sappho, back to find the sun.
And ease your hurt by singing. But to me
Put round about you warm invisible arms
I hate your hands that beat so full of life,
Goes by my door without a thought of me—
My songs are less than sea-sand that the wind
Silently toward me—he who night by night
I shall have gone forever. Hold my hands,
She was the perfect lover"—I shall die,
Swear by the gods you will not let me go;
That they would fly to me and on the breast
Too short to take the whole of life for, yet
With such a longing, tremulous and keen,
Go, lest my hatred hurt you. I shall die,
Neared me and put his hand behind my head,
I am afraid, afraid.
The breath of love upon them? Yet he passed,
Last night the fever gave a dream to me,
I go toward darkness though I lie so still.
I should have kept my life—I let it go.
The dream is worth the dying. Do not smile
Her girdle round me. I am Death's, not Love's.
Great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun
Hold fast, that Death may never come between;
Your words will live forever, men will say
That was a little dream for Death to give,
Bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields
He might have loved some other spring than this;
Was I not sometimes fair? My eyes, my mouth,
No, do not shake your head; I see your eyes
The flakes once more against the laboring sea,
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You've successfully reconstructed the poem! Your understanding of poetry and attention to detail is impressive.
They sent you in to say farewell to me, No, do not shake your head; I see your eyes That shine with tears. Sappho, you saw the sun Just now when you came hither; and again, When you have left me, all the shimmering Great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun Put round about you warm invisible arms As might a lover, decking you with light. I go toward darkness though I lie so still. If I could see the sun, I should look up And drink the light until my eyes were blind; I should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass, And I should call the birds with such a voice, With such a longing, tremulous and keen, That they would fly to me and on the breast Bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields The kiss I gave them.
Sappho, tell me this, Was I not sometimes fair? My eyes, my mouth, My hair that loved the wind, were they not worth The breath of love upon them? Yet he passed, And he will pass to-night when all the air Is blue with twilight; but I shall not see. I shall have gone forever. Hold my hands, Hold fast, that Death may never come between; Swear by the gods you will not let me go; Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love— But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men. I am afraid, afraid. Sappho, lean down. Last night the fever gave a dream to me, It takes my life and gives me only a dream. I thought I saw him stand, the man I love, Here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes Fixed on me as I entered, while he drew Silently toward me—he who night by night Goes by my door without a thought of me— Neared me and put his hand behind my head, And leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth. That was a little dream for Death to give, Too short to take the whole of life for, yet I woke with lips made quiet by a kiss.
The dream is worth the dying. Do not smile So sadly on me with your shining eyes, You who can set your sorrow to a song And ease your hurt by singing. But to me My songs are less than sea-sand that the wind Drives stinging over me and bears away. I have no care what place the grains may fall, Nor of my songs, if Time shall blow them back, As land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam Along the bright wet beaches, scattering The flakes once more against the laboring sea, Into oblivion. What do I care To please Apollo since Love does not hear? Your words will live forever, men will say "She was the perfect lover"—I shall die, I loved too much to live. Go Sappho, go— I hate your hands that beat so full of life, Go, lest my hatred hurt you. I shall die, But you will live to love and love again. He might have loved some other spring than this; I should have kept my life—I let it go. He would not love me now though Cypris bound Her girdle round me. I am Death's, not Love's. Go from me, Sappho, back to find the sun.