The papyrus record of this wedding is frayed, but parts of vows are preserved in crystal.
Quince
Something sweet reddens, the last graft, up at the last of the branches.
Do the hands that would caress and turn it for harvest just forget?
Do the hands that would caress and turn it for harvest just forget?
No, of course they couldn't forget, not entirely — they couldn't reach.
Hyacinth
Blown by Zephyrs to high altitudes, bruised purple by the blue,
The feet that don't know shepherd the blossoms in the tread of their boots.
--------------------------------------------------------------
οἶον τὸ γλυκύμαλον ἐρεύθεται ἄκρῳ ἐπ’ ὔσδῳ,
ἄκρον ἐπ’ ἀκροτάτῳ, λελάθοντο δὲ μαλοδρόπηες·
οὐ μὰν ἐκλελάθοντ’, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐδύναντ’ ἐπίκεσθαι.
οἴαν τὰν ὐάκινθον ἐν ὤρεσι ποίμενες ἄνδρες
πόσσι καταστείβοισι, χάμαι δέ τε πόρφυρον ἄνθος . . .
These fragments are part of a longer wedding poem that can be found at The Digital Sappho.
