No Sappho, Love's Condition is Class Warfare
Here on the face of earth - not in the sky, above -
On the face of the nearest earth, the mother;
Rest in sadness and rejoice in her meagre joy
Who knows how to comfort.
I have not blurred the day - the day is in hand,
The solid day, warm, sturdy:
To drink one’s fill of this day, the short day, the one,
On the face of our earth here
Before it is night – come, come everyone!
A united effort, stubborn and alert
Of a thousand arms. Will the wave stop
The stone from the well?