Bride, that goest to the bridal chamber
In the dove-drawn car of Aphrodite,
     By a band of dimpled
       Loves surrounded;
 
Bride, of maidens all the fairest image
Mitylene treasures of the Goddess,
     Rosy-ankled Graces
       Are thy playmates;
 
Bride, O fair and lovely, thy companions
Are the gracious hours that onward passing
     For thy gladsome footsteps
       Scatter garlands.
 
Bride, that blushing like the sweetest apple
On the very branch's end, so strangely
     Overlooked, ungathered
       By the gleaners;
 
Bride, that like the apple that was never
Overlooked but out of reach so plainly,
     Only one thy rarest
       Fruit may gather;
 
Bride, that into womanhood has ripened
For the harvest of the bridegroom only,
     He alone shall taste thy
       Hoarded sweetness.
​
Text: Sappho
(translated by John Myers O'Hara)