In January 2014 the corpus of Sappho grew by more lines at a stroke than it had in nearly a century: a papyrus of Roman date, now called P.Sapph.Obbink, was found to carry five whole stanzas of one poem and the battered head of another, side by side in a single column. The whole poem is the Brothers Poem — the first nearly complete Sappho to surface since the great papyrus finds of the early twentieth century, and the only one we have in which she speaks of her family by name. Ancient readers knew these brothers well. Herodotus, a century and a half after Sappho, already reports that her brother Charaxos sailed wine to Egypt, ruinously ransomed the courtesan Rhodopis there, and was mocked for it by his sister in a poem; Athenaeus adds that young Larichos poured the wine in the town hall of Mytilene, an honor reserved for the well-born. Here, at last, is a poem behind the gossip. Someone — a mother? the poet’s own restless self? — keeps chattering that Charaxos will come home with a full ship. Sappho’s answer is liturgical in its calm: that is for Zeus and all the gods to know; my business is to be sent to pray to Queen Hera for the ship’s safe return; everything else, hand over to the powers above, for fair skies come quickly out of great gales — and if only Larichos would lift his head and finally become a man, how quickly we would all be unburdened. Anxiety about money, the sea, and an underachieving younger brother: no poem of hers is more domestic, and none more serenely engineered, the worry rising stanza by stanza into proverb and prayer. Beside it stands the Kypris Poem, a torn prayer-complaint to Aphrodite that joins the scraps long numbered fragment 26: how can anyone not ache, again and again, whomever one really loves? The old quotation that traveled with that number — "the people I treat well are the ones who hurt me most" — sharpens the same wound from another angle. One caution belongs in plain sight: unlike every other text in this book, dug from the sands by named excavators, this papyrus surfaced on the antiquities market, and its modern history is contested. The dispute concerns the object and its owners, not the verses; but for that reason these two poems are printed as bare transcription — the letters the papyrus carries, the losses marked, and no modern guesswork silently filled in.