Sacred Texts: The Classics

The Songs of Bilitis: II. Elegies At Mytilene: The Wax Doll

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Wax-doll, dear plaything that she called her child, she has left you too and forgets you, like myself, who was with her your father or your mother, I forget. The pressure of her lips has worn the paint from your little cheeks; and, on your left hand, here is the broken finger that made her cry so much. This little cyclas that you wear, 'twas, she who worked it for you.

The Songs of Bilitis: II. Elegies At Mytilene: The Wax Doll

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