By Sappho, in Mary Barnard's brilliant translation
Timas
We put the urn aboard ship
with this inscription
This is the dust of little
Timas who unmarried was led
into Persephone's dark bedroom
and she being far from home, girls
her age took new-edged blades
to cut, in mourning for her,
these curls of their soft hair
Cyprian, in my dream
the folds of a purple
kerchief shadowed
your cheeks--the one
Timas one time sent,
a timid gift, all
the way from Phocaea
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