From Anactoria
	
	Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spit wine,
	Except these kisses of my lips on thine
	Brand them with immortality; but me -
	Men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea,
	Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold
	Cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold
	And plumeless wings thunder for a hound behind
	Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown,
	But in the light and laughter, in the moan
	And music, and in grasp of lip and hand 
	And shudder of water that makes felt on land
	The immeasurable tremor of all the sea,
	Memories shall mix and metaphors of me.
	
	- A.C. Swinburne, After Sappho (1844-1909)