Sappho: Love Poem

(44 Translations)

“Translations of Sappho, until recent years, have been fantastically inappropriate. . . . Today a sufficient number of literal translations by modern poets may enable the reader of English to envelop Sappho and measure her as we do distant stars by triangulation from more mundane objects. It then becomes apparent that we are not deluding ourselves. There has been no other poet like this. Wherever enough words remain to form a coherent context, they give one another a unique luster, an effulgence found nowhere else. Presentational immediacy of the image, overwhelming urgency of personal involvement — in no other poet are these two prime factors of lyric poetry raised to so great a power.” (Kenneth Rexroth, Classics Revisited)

This portion of a Sappho poem survives only because the ancient critic Longinus quoted it as a supreme example of poetic intensity: “Are you not amazed at how she evokes soul, body, hearing, tongue, sight, skin, as though they were external and belonged to someone else? And how at one and the same moment she both freezes and burns, is irrational and sane, is terrified and nearly dead, so that we observe in her not a single emotion but a whole concourse of emotions? Such things do, of course, commonly happen to people in love. Sappho’s supreme excellence lies in the skill with which she selects the most striking and vehement circumstances of the passions and forges them into a coherent whole” (Longinus, On the Sublime).

Below are some of the many translations of this poem. Most of the early ones have little resemblance to the original, but I have included a few for their historical interest.

The poem as we have it is incomplete, as there is the beginning of an additional line at the end (“But all must be endured . . .”). Most translators have ignored that line and concluded with the previous line, but a few modern ones include it.

Here are two slightly different versions of the original poem, transcribed in Roman characters (the differences presumably reflect different decisions regarding textual emendation or different styles of Romanization). I have replaced macrons (horizontal lines over vowels) with circumflexes, as macrons do not reproduce consistently in Internet formats.

phainetai moi kênos îsos theoisin
emmen’ ônêr ottis enantios toi
isdanei kai plâsion âdu phonei-
sâs upakouei

kai gelaisâs îmeroen to m’ êmân
kardiân en stêthesin eptoaisen
ôs gar es s’ idô brokhe’ os me phônai-
s’ oud’ en et’ eikei

alla kam men glôssa eâge lepton
d’ autika khrôi pur upadedromâken
oppatessi d’ oud’en orêmm’ epirom-
beisi d’ akouai

kad de m’ idrôs kakkheetai tromos de
paisan agrei khlôrotera de poiâs
emmi tethnakên d’ oligô ‘pideuês
phainom’ em’ autai.

Alla pan tomaton . . .

*

phainetai moi kênos isos theoisin
emmen’ ônêr ottis enantios toi
isdanei kai plasion adu phônê-
sas upakouei

kai gelaisas imeroen to m’ ê man
kardian en stêthesin eptoaisen
ôs gar es s’ idô broche’ ôs me phônê-
s’ ouden et’ eikei

alla kam men glôssa eage lepton
d’ autika chrôi pur upadedromaken
oppatessi d’ ouden orêmm’ epibro-
meisi d’ akouai

ekade m’ idrôs kakcheetai, tremos de
paisan agrei, chlôrotera de poias
emmi, tethnakên d’ oligô ‘pideuês
phainom’ em’ autai.

Alla pan tomaton [epei kai panêta] . . .

—Sappho (ca. 500 BC)

Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
ille, si fas est, superare divos,
qui sedens adversus identidem te
spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
eripit sensus mihi, nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
vocis in ore,

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
lumina nocte.

Otium, Catulle, tibi molestum est.
Otio exultas nimiumque gestis.
Otium et reges prius et beatas
perdidit urbes.

Translated into Latin by Catullus (Carmina #51, ca. 50 BC)

[In his translation Catullus inserts the name of his own love (“Lesbia”) and adds a coda in which he addresses himself (“Otium, Catulle . . .”). A few of the following versions are actually translated from Catullus’s version and thus include that coda. In such cases I have omitted it.]

Je suis un Demidieu quand assis vis-à-vis
De toy, mon cher souci, j’escoute les devis,
Devis entrerompus d’un gracieux soubrire,
Soubris qui me detient le coeur emprisonné;
Car en voyant tes yeux je me pasme estonné,
Et de mes pauvres flancs un seul mot je ne tire.
Ma langue s’engourdist, un petit feu me court
Honteux de sous la peau; je suis muet et sourd,
Et une obscure nuit de sur mes yeux demeure;
Mon sang devient glacé, l’esprit fuit de mon corps,
Je tremble tout de crainte, et peu s’en faut alors
Qu’à tes pieds estendu, sans ame je ne meure.

Translated into French by Pierre de Ronsard (1560)

Je le vis, je rougis, je pâlis à sa vue;
Un trouble s’élèva dans mon âme éperdue;
Mes yeux ne voyaient plus, je ne pouvais parler;
Je sentis tout mon corps et transir et brûler. . . .

French adaptation from Jean Racine’s Phèdre (1677)

[For 98 other French versions, see L’Égal des dieux: cent versions d’un poème de Sappho, Éditions Allia, 2001.]

My muse, what ails this ardour?
Mine eys be dym, my lymbs shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throte scorcht,
My tong to this roofe cleaves,
My fancy amazde, my thoughtes dull’d,
My head doth ake, my life faints
My sowle begins to take leave,
So greate a passion all feele,
To think a soare so deadly
I should so rashly ripp up.

Translated by Sir Phillip Sidney (1554-1586)

He that sits next to thee now and hears
Thy charming voyce, to me appears
Beauteous as any Deity
     That rules the skie.

How did his pleasing glances dart
Sweet languors to my ravish’d heart
At the first sight though so prevailed
     That my voyce fail’d.

I’m speechless, feavrish, fires assail
My fainting flesh, my sight doth fail
Whilst to my restless mind my ears
     Still hum new fears.

Cold sweats and tremblings so invade
That like a wither’d flower I fade
So that my life being almost lost,
     I seem a Ghost.

Yet since I’m wretched must I dare . . .

Translated by John Hall (1652)

Bles’t as th’Immortal Gods is he,
The Youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

’Twas this depriv’d my Soul of Rest,
And raised such Tumults in my Breast;
For while I gaz’d, in Transport tost,
My Breath was gone, my Voice was lost;

My Bosom glow’d; the subtle Flame
Ran quick thro’ all my vital Frame;
O’er my dim Eyes a Darkness hung;
My Ears with hollow Murmurs rung:

In dewy Damps my Limbs were chill’d;
My Blood with gentle Horrors thrill’d;
My feeble Pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and dy’d away.

Translated by Ambrose Philips (1711)

Happy as a God is he,
That fond Youth, who plac’d by thee,
Hears and sees thee sweetly gay,
Talk and smile his soul away.

That it was alarm’d by Breast,
And depriv’d my Heart of Rest.
For in speechless Raptures tost,
Whilst I gaz’d, my Voice was lost.

The soft Fire with flowing Rein,
Glided swift thro’ ev’ry Vein;
Darkness o’er my Eyelids hung;
In my Ears faint Murmurs rung.

Chilling Damps my Limbs bedew’d;
Gentle Tremors thrill’d my Blood;
Life from my pale Cheeks retir’d;
Breathless, I almost expir’d.

Translated by John Addison (1735)

Thy fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love.
I feel thy soft resistless flame
Glide swift through all my vital frame.

For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows,
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transports whelm my soul.

My faltering tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain;
Thy tongue some secret magic ties,
Thy murmurs sink in broken sighs.

Condemned to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear,
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die.

Adaptation by Tobias Smollett (1741)

Good Heavens! what were the thrillings of my soul at that instant! my reflection was overwhelmed with a torrent of agitation! my heart throbbed with surprising violence! a sudden mist overspread my eyes! my ears were invaded with a dreadful sound! I panted for want of breath, and, in short, was for some moments entranced! This first tumult subsiding, a crowd of flattering ideas rushed upon my imagination. . . .

From Smollett’s novel Roderick Random (1748)

Equal to Jove that youth must be —
Greater than Jove he seems to me —
Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
Ah! Lesbia! though ’tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch’d to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o’erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing,
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil’d in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

Translated by Lord Byron (ca. 1820)

Blest as the immortal gods is he
On whom each day thy glances shine;
Who hears thy voice of melody,
And meets thy smile so all divine.

Oh, when I list thine accents low
How thrills my breast with tender pain—
Fire seems through every vein to glow,
And strange confusion whelms my brain.

My sight grows dim beneath the glance
Whose ardent rays I may not meet,
While swift and wild my pulses dance,
Then cease all suddenly to beat.

And o’er my cheek with rapid gush,
I feel the burning life-tide dart;
Then backward like a torrent rush
All icy cold upon my heart.

And I am motionless and pale,
And silent as an unstrung lyre;
And feel, while thus each sense doth fail,
Doomed in thy presence to expire.

Translated by Mary Hewitt (1845)

     I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
     While I muse upon thy face;
And a languid fire creeps
     Thro’ my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly: soon
     From thy rose-red lips my name
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
     My tremulous tongue faltereth,
     I lose my color, I lose my breath,
     I drink the cup of a costly death,
Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warmest life.
     I die with my delight, before
     I hear what I would hear from thee.

Paraphrase by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (ca. 1850)

Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissful
Man who sits and gazes at thee before him,
Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears thee
     Silverly speaking,
Laughing love’s low laughter. Oh this, this only
Stirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble!
For should I but see thee a little moment,
     Straight is my voice hushed;
Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me
’Neath the flesh impalpable fire runs tingling;
Nothing see mine eyes, and a noise of roaring
     Waves in my ears sounds;
Sweat runs down in rivers, a tremor seizes
All my limbs, and paler than grass in autumn,
Caught by pains of menacing death, I falter,
     Lost in the love trance.

Translated by John Addington Symonds (1883)

He is changed to a god who looks on her,
Godlike he shines when he’s seated beside her,
Immortal joy to gaze and hear the fall of
     Her sweet laughter.
All of my senses are lost and confounded;
Lesbia rises before me and trembling
I sink into earth and swift dissolution
     Seizes my body.
Limbs are pierced with fire and the heavy tongue fails,
Ears resound with noise of distant storms shaking
This earth, eyes gaze on stars that fall forever
     Into deep midnight. . . .

Translated by Horace Gregory (1931)

That man is peer of the gods, who
face to face sits listening
to your sweet speech and lovely
     laughter.

It is this that rouses a tumult
in my breast. At mere sight of you
my voice falters, my tongue
     is broken.

Straightway, a delicate fire runs in
my limbs; my eyes
are blinded and my ears
     thunder.

Sweat pours out: a trembling hunts
me down. I grow
paler than grass and lack little
     of dying.

Translated by William Carlos Williams (1958)

He is more than a hero

He is a god in my eyes —
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you — he

who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing

laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I can’t

speak — my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far from me.

Translated by Mary Barnard (1958)

Like the very gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
     murmur in love and

laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,
     I can say nothing,

but my lips are stricken to silence, under-
neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
     muted in thunder.

And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
     death has come near me.

Translated by Richmond Lattimore (1960)

Peer of the gods he seems to me.
The naked man sits looking at you
silent at your silver words, laughing
the low laugh of love.

This only moves my heart!
Your image silences me.
My tongue becomes thick
and in my flesh moves an impalpable fire,
blind before a black warm wave
draws from my body sweat!
I am beyond my shuddering limbs
for still me death menaces
into pale hesitation at each moment
until lost in the trance of love

I falter and fall.

From Alexander Trocchi’s novel Sappho of Lesbos: An Erotic Odyssey (1960)

He’ll hie me, par is he? the God divide her,
he’ll hie, see fastest, superior deity,
quiz — sitting adverse identity — mate, in-
     spect it and audit —
you’ll care ridden then, misery hold omens,
air rip the senses from me; now you smile to
me — Lesbia’s aspect — no life is to spare me
     [voice hoarse in a throat]
linked tongue set torpid, tenuous support a-
flame a day mown down, sound tone sopped up in its
tinkling, in ears hearing, twin eyes tug under
     luminous — a night.

Translated by Louis & Celia Zukovsky (1961)
(The bizarre style stems from the translators’ attempt to echo the sound of Catullus’s Latin.
The Latin first line, for example, reads: “Ille mi par esse deo videtur.”)

I set that man above the gods and heroes —
all day, he sits before you face to face,
like a cardplayer. Your elbow brushes his elbow —
if you should speak, he hears.

The touched heart madly stirs,
your laughter is water hurrying over pebbles —
every gesture is a proclamation,
every sound is speech . . .

Refining fire purifies my flesh!
I hear you: a hollowness in my ears
thunders and stuns me. I cannot speak.
I cannot see.

I shiver. A dead whiteness spreads over
my body, trickling pinpricks of sweat.
I am greener than the greenest green grass —
I die!

Translated by Robert Lowell (1962)

he to me wholly godlike seems
he (please god forgive) seems higher than god
who sits across from you and over and over
     looks at you and hears you
sweetly laughing, miserably which all
my senses rips from me, for the minute Lesbia
I lay eyes on you nothing is left me
     of..............
but torpid my tongue, thinly down under my skin
flame trickles, with their own sound
roar my ears, twin night
     covers my eyes

Translated by Frank O. Copley (1964)

O, it is godlike to sit selfpossessed
when her chin rises and she turns to smile;
but my tongue thickens, my ears ring,
what I see is hazy.

I tremble. Walls sink in night, voices
unmeaning as wind. She only
a clear note, dazzle of light, fills
furlongs and hours

so that my limbs stir without will, lame,
I a ghost, powerless,
treading air, drowning, sucked
back into dark

unless, rafted on light or music,
drawn into her radiance, I dissolve
when her chin rises and she turns to smile.
O, it is godlike!

Imitation by Basil Bunting (1965)

To me that man equals a god
as he sits before you and listens
closely to your sweet voice

and lovely laughter — which troubles
the heart in my ribs. For now
as I look at you my voice fails,

my tongue is broken and thin fire
runs like a thief through my body.
My eyes are dead to light, my ears

pound, and sweat pours down over me.
I shudder, I am paler than grass,
and am intimate with dying — but

I must suffer everything, being poor.

Translated by Willis Barnstone (first version, 1965)

To me he seems like a god
as he sits facing you and
hears you near as you speak
softly and laugh

in a sweet echo that jolts
the heart in my ribs. For now
as I look at you my voice
is empty and

can say nothing as my tongue
cracks and slender fire is quick
under my skin. My eyes are dead
to light, my ears

pound, and sweat pours over me.
I convulse, greener than grass,
and feel my mind slip as I
go close to death,

yet, being poor, must suffer
everything.

Translated by Willis Barnstone (second version, 1988)

He is a god in my eyes, that man,
Given to sit in front of you
And close to himself sweetly to hear
     The sound of you speaking.

Your magical laughter — this I swear —
Batters my heart — my breast astir —
My voice when I see you suddenly near
     Refuses to come.

My tongue breaks up and a delicate fire
Runs through my flesh; I see not a thing
With my eyes, and all that I hear
     In my ears is a hum.

The sweat runs down, a shuddering takes
Me in every part and pale as the drying
Grasses, then, I think I am near
     The moment of dying.

Translated by Paul Roche (1966)

Godlike the man who
sits at her side, who
watches and catches
     that laughter
which (softly) tears me
to tatters: nothing is
left of me, each time
     I see her,
. . . tongue numbed; arms, legs
melting, on fire; drum
drumming in ears; head-
     lights gone black.

Translated by Peter Whigham (1966)

He rivals gods, it seems to me,
outdoes the gods, if that may be,
who sits and watches you, time and time again
can gaze and hear

your sweet laughter, all which drives
my poor wits away. The moment I catch
sight of you, Lesbia, I am bereft,
Lesbia, of voice,

my tongue lies dazed, within my frame
a subtle burning spreads, my ears resound
with their own din, a twin darkness
wraps around my eyes. . . .

Translated by Kenneth Quinn (1973)

He seems to be a god, that man
Facing you, who leans to be close,
Smiles, and, alert and glad, listens
To your mellow voice

And quickens in love at your laughter
That stings my breasts, jolts my heart
If I dare the shock of a glance.
I cannot speak,

My tongue sticks to my dry mouth,
Thin fire spreads beneath my skin,
My eyes cannot see and my aching ears
Roar in their labyrinths.

Chill sweat slides down my body,
I shake, I turn greener than grass.
I am neither living nor dead and cry
From the narrow between.

But endure, even this grief of love.

Translated by Guy Davenport (1980)

The one seems to me to be like the gods, the man whosoever sits facing you and listens nearby to your sweet speech and desirable laughter--which surely terrifies the heart in my chest; for as I look briefly at you, so can I no longer speak at all, my tongue is silent, broken, a silken fire suddenly has spread beneath my skin, with my eyes I see nothing, my hearing hums, a cold sweat grips me, a trembling seizes me entire, more pale than grass am I, I seem to myself to be a little short of dead. But everything is to be endured, since even a pauper. . . .

Translated by Jack Winkler (1981)

I think that man is like a god
Who faces you, and sits by you,
And listens to your gentle words,
And to your silver laughter. But I—
My heart explodes within my breast;
One timid glance, and all my voice is gone,
My tongue breaks, and a subtle flame
Races below my flesh, my eyes
Refuse their sight, my hearing is a gong,
Cold sweat clings to me, and I shake
From head to toe, my skin the color
Of grass: I am about to die, I think. . . .

Translated by T.G. Rosenmeyer (ca. 1982)

Equal to the gods does he appear,
     that man who sits close by you,
          hears the sound of your sweet voice
               — instantly near —

and your delightful laughter. That sight,
     I swear, sets my heartbeat pounding;
          the slightest glance at you puts my
               speech to flight!

My tongue unhinges, a delicate
     flame slips racing neath my skin,
          I see nothing, am blinded, my ears
               ring, pulsate,

a cold sweat commands me, dread
     grasps at my heart. More pallid
          than grass, I appear to myself
               nearly dead.

Translated by Jeffrey Duban (1983)

To me it seems
that man has the fortune of gods,
whoever sits beside you, and close,
who listens to you sweetly speaking
and laughing temptingly;
my heart flutters in my breast,
whenever I look quickly, for a moment —
I say nothing, my tongue broken,
a delicate fire runs under my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears roar,
cold sweat rushes down me,
trembling seizes me,
I am greener than grass,
to myself I seem
needing but little to die.

But all must be endured, since . . .

Translated by Diane Rayor (1991)

In my eyes he matches the gods, the man who
sits there facing you — any man whatever —
listening from closeby to the sweetness of your
     voice as you talk, the

sweetness of your laughter: yes, that — I swear it —
sets the heart to shaking inside my breast, since
once I look at you for a moment, I can’t
     speak any longer,

but my tongue breaks down, and then all at once a
subtle fire races inside my skin, my
eyes can’t see a thing and a whirring whistle
     thrums at my hearing,

cold sweat covers me and a trembling takes
ahold of me all over: I’m greener than the
grass is and appear to myself to be little
     short of dying.

But all must be endured, since even a poor . . .

Translated by Jim Powell (1993)

He seems as fortunate as the gods to me, the man who sits opposite you and listens nearby to your sweet voics and lovely laughter. Truly that sets my heart trembling in my breast. For when I look at you for a moment, then it is no longer possible for me to speak; my tongue has snapped, at once a subtle fire has stolen beneath my flesh, I see nothing with my eyes, my ears hum, sweat pours from me, a trembling seizes me all over, I am greener than grass, and it seems to me that I am little short of dying. But all can be endured, since . . . even a poor man . . .

Translated by Margaret Williamson (1995)

He seems to me equal to the gods that man
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
     to your sweet speaking

and lovely laughing — oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
     is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
     fills ears

and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead — or almost
     I seem to me.

But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty . . .

Translated by Anne Carson (2002)

He’s equal with the Gods, that man
Who sits across from you,
Face to face, close enough, to sip
Your voice’s sweetness,

And what excites my mind,
Your laughter, glittering. So,
When I see you, for a moment,
My voice goes,

My tongue freezes. Fire,
Delicate fire, in the flesh.
Blind, stunned, the sound
Of thunder, in my ears.

Shivering with sweat, cold
Tremors over the skin,
I turn the colour of dead grass,
And I’m an inch from dying.

Translated by A.S. Kline (2005)

He must feel blooded with the spirit of a god
to sit opposite you and listen, and reply,
to your talk, your laughter, your touching,
breath-held silences. But what I feel, sitting here
and watching you, so stops my heart and binds
my tongue that I can’t think what I might say
to breach the aureole around you there.
It’s as if someone with flint and stone had sparked
a fire that kindled the flesh along my arms
and smothered me in its smoke-blind rush.
Paler than summer grass, it seems
I am already dead, or little short of dying.

Translated by Sherod Santos (2005)

He appears to me, that one, equal to the gods,
the man who, facing you,
is seated and, up close, that sweet voice of yours
he listens to

And how you laugh your charming laugh. Why it
makes my heart flutter within my breast,
because the moment I look at you, right then, for me,
to make any sound at all won’t work any more.

My tongue has a breakdown and a delicate
— all of a sudden — fire rushes under my skin.
With my eyes I see not a thing, and there is a roar
that my ears make.

Sweat pours down me and a trembling
seizes all of me; paler than grass
am I, and a little short of death
do I appear to me.

Translated by Gregory Nagy (2011 or earlier)

To my eyes, that man is equal to a god,
or (if I dare say it) surpasses all of them.
Time and again, as he sits opposite,
he sees and hears you

sweetly laughing — a fact that takes away
all sense from poor old me. For no sooner,
Lesbia, do I catch sight of you than
[my voice dies inside my mouth].

My tongue is paralysed, a subtle fire runs
through my limbs, my ears are ringing
with some sound their own, a double darkness
covers now my eyes.

Translated by Tim Chilcott (2013)

Seem, he seems to me like a god to be that
man who sits and steals in the shade of our
sun and coming close to your sweet unclosing
     mouth in the daytime.
Now you laugh and I am alive, for in your
light I green my leaves and would speak if speech were
given me but oh, how the vine does speak in
     vain in the evening.

No, my tongue is naught and aflame my body
yes, my eyes are naught and the ears are drumming
deaf and drowned I’m lost to my limbs, a midnight
     more in darkness.

Sweat beads down and trembling all it grips me,
halves me, wholes me — seem, so I seem near broken,
bown, an ungreened grass fallen greenlessly down,
     and dead.

Translated by Ian Gray (2013)

He seems to me an equal of the gods—
whoever gets to sit across from you
and listen to the sound of your sweet speech
so close to him,

to your beguiling laughter: O it makes my
panicked heart go fluttering in my chest,
for the moment I catch sight of you there’s no
speech left in me,

but tongue gags—: all at once a faint
fever courses down beneath the skin,
eyes no longer capable of sight, a thrum-
ming in the ears,

and sweat drips down my body, and the shakes
lay siege to me all over, and I’m greener
than grass, I’m just a little short of dying,
I seem to me;

but all must be endured, since even a pauper . . .

Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn (2015)

He seems equal to a god that man
who, seated before you
listens, captivated
by the sweetness of your speech
your enchanting laughter
has made my heart pound in my chest:
if I gaze, my voice does not obey
my tongue splits
and embers burn beneath my skin
I am blind, my ears abuzz
sweat trickles, I tremble and shake
and I am pale, paler than grass
I feel as though death is near.

Translated into Spanish by Irene Vallejo (2019) and thence into English by Charlotte Whittle (2022)
in the English version of Vallejo’s book: Papyrus: The Invention of Books in the Ancient World

That man seems placed as a god might be—
Sitting there so near to you;
Hearing your lovely talk,
And your thrilling laughter.

All this makes my heart
Beat rapidly within me.
As I look at you now
I find I cannot speak—

In my mouth, my tongue will not move;
And I feel as though a fire
Were traveling all through me.

I cannot see. I feel
A pounding in my ears.
I am covered in sweat,
And I am shaking.

I know that I am paler than the palest grass,
And that I am going away from things
Into death.

Translated by Ellen Reiss (2023)

That guy has got to be
stone cold dead
who sits beside you
splashed by your laughter
inhaling the fragrance of your flesh
and still doesn't climb all over you.

One row back,
my heart pounds in my ears
and I grow hard just scanning your spine,
yet when you turn
and show the sweetness of your face
and the lips that speak my name
I cannot think of anything to say.

“After Sappho” by Hal Gelb (2023)