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