Isle of Lesbos: Poetry of Michael Field
It was deep April, and the morn
Shakespere was born;
The world was on us, pressing sore;
My love and I took hands and swore,
Against the world, to be
Poets and lovers evermore,
To laugh and dream on Lethe's shore,
To sing to Charon in his boat,
Heartening the timid souls afloat;
Of judgement never to take heed,
But to those fast-locked souls to speed,
Whoe never from Apollo fled,
Who spent no hour among the dead;
Continually
With them to dwell,
Indifferent to heaven and hell.
You are both Sappho and muses, my priestesses. Your defiance is your loyalty and piety, though your god (maybe gods?) occupied no definite name. Although there is no way for me to know what forged the bondage between you, one thing is certain: you must have been free from fear and shame out of your faith in each other.