“I will whisper it softly.  Philomel sings to her mate ‘I love thee,’ and he answers, (don’t you hear him?), ‘Itys, ito, itys.’”

“And what does that mean, ‘Ito, ito?’”

“I accept it.”

“And Itys?”

“Oh, that must be explained, to be rightly understood.  Itys is a circle; and a circle, I was always taught, is the symbol of eternity, having neither beginning nor end; so the nightingale sings, ’I accept it for eternity.’”

“And if I say to you, ‘I love thee?’”

“Then I shall answer gladly, like the sweet nightingale, ’I accept it for to-day, to-morrow, for all eternity!’”

“What a wonderful night it is! everything so still and silent; I do not even hear the nightingale now; she is sitting in the acacia-tree among the bunches of sweet blossoms.  I can see the tops of the palm-trees in the Nile, and the moon’s reflection between them, glistening like a white swan.”

“Yes, her rays are over every living thing like silver fetters, and the whole world lies motionless beneath them like a captive woman.  Happy as I feel now, yet I could not even laugh, and still less speak in a loud voice.”

“Then whisper, or sing!”

“Yes, that is the best.  Give me a lyre.  Thank you.  Now I will lean my head on your breast, and sing you a little, quiet, peaceful song.  It was written by Alkman, the Lydian, who lived in Sparta, in praise of night and her stillness.  You must listen though, for this low, sweet slumber-song must only leave the lips like a gentle wind.  Do not kiss me any more, please, till I have finished; then I will ask you to thank me with a kiss: 

     “Now o’er the drowsy earth still night prevails,
     Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
     The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;

     The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
     The cattle on the bill.  Deep in the sea
     The countless finny race and monster brood
     Tranquil repose.  Even the busy bee
     Forgets her daily toil.  The silent wood
     No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
     And all the feathered tribe, by gentle sleep subdued,
     Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings.” 
               —­Translation by Colonel Mure.

“Now, dearest, where is my kiss?”

“I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in kissing.”

“You are too bad.  But tell me, is not my song lovely?”

“Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing.”

“And the Greek poets write?”

“Yes, there you are right too, I admit.”

“Are there no poets in Persia?”

“How can you ask such a question?  How could a nation, who despised song, pretend to any nobility of feeling?”

“But you have some very bad customs.”

“Well?”

“You take so many wives.”

“My Sappho . . .”

“Do not misunderstand me.  I love you so much, that I have no other wish than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you.  If, by taking me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your country, if you would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even blame, (for who could dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives; but let me have you, for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even three years.  Will you promise this, Bartja?”