As a wan weaver in an attic dim,
⁠Hopeless yet patient, so he may be fed
⁠With scanty store of sorrow-seasoned bread,
⁠Heareth a blithe bird carol over him,
And sees no longer walls and rafters grim,
⁠But rural lanes where little feet are led
⁠Through springing flowers, fields with clover spread,
⁠Clouds, swan-like, that o'er depths of azure swim,—
So, when upon our earth-dulled ear new breaks
⁠Some fragment, Sappho, of thy skyey song,
⁠A noble wonder in our souls awakes;
The deathless Beautiful draws strangely nigh,
⁠And we look up, and marvel how so long
⁠We were content to drudge for sordid joys that die.