my favourite Beatle….
Come to me from Crete to this holy temple,
Aphrodite. Here is a grove of apple
trees for your delight, and the smoking altars
fragrant with incense.
Here cold water rustles down through the apple
branches; all the lawn is beset and darkened
under roses, and, from the leaves that tremble,
There’s no voice quite like Sappho’s… Is it weird that I can almost hear someone whose been dead for two and a half thousand years?