Was Time not harsh to you, or was he kind, O pale Erinna of the perfect lyre, That he has left no word of singing fire Whereby you waked the dreaming Lesbian wind, And kindled night along the lyric shore？ O girl whose lips Erato stooped to kiss, Do you go sorrowing because of this In fields where poets sing forevermore？ Or are you glad and is it best to be A silent music men have never heard, A dream in all our souls that we may say： "Her voice had all the rapture of the sea, And all the clear cool quiver of a bird Deep in a forest at the break of day"？