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"?