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Rh For you had nothing but your looks, And you would never read my books.

So now you'll hate yourself, and hide Where most ignoble shades abide; But I'll, not make your spirit sad, For you are dead now—and I'm glad.

So now the very bones of you are gone Where they were dust and ashes long ago; And there was the last ribbon you tied on To bind your hair, and that is dust also; And somewhere there is dust that was of old A soft and scented garment that you wore— The same that once till dawn did closely fold You in with fair Charaxus, fair no more.

But Sappho, and the white leaves of her song, Will make your name a word for all to learn, And all to love thereafter, even while It's but a name; and this will be as long As there are distant ships that will return Again to your Naucratis and the Nile.