Book VII, 17: On the Same

When thou passest, O stranger, by the Aeolian tomb, say not that I, the Lesbian poetess, am dead. This tomb was built by the hands of men, and such works of mortals are lost in swift oblivion. But if thou enquirest about me for the sake of the Muses, from each of whom I took a flower to lay beside my nine flowers of song, thou shalt find that I escaped the darkness of death, and that no sun shall dawn and set without memory of lyric Sappho.