This is the gleaning-basket of the corpus: everything the ancient world saved of Sappho without telling us where it belonged. The Alexandrian edition sorted her songs into books by meter; the quoting authors who preserved these lines — Hephaestion hunting metrical examples, Athenaeus collecting dinner-table lore, grammarians chasing an Aeolic genitive, lexicographers after a rare word — rarely bothered to say which book they were tearing the page from. So the fragments of uncertain book contain some of her most famous sentences, saved for the least literary of reasons: Eros the limb-loosener, that sweetbitter creeping thing, survives because Hephaestion liked its meter; the girl who cannot weave for longing survives the same way; and the one-line claim on the future — someone, I say, will remember us — survives because Dio Chrysostom thought it beautifully said. Here too are the dirge for Adonis with its ritual cry, the wedding-feast of the gods where Hermes pours, little Cleis worth more than all Lydia, the rivals Gorgo and Andromeda and the house of Polyanax, the full moon and the women around the altar. After them, in honesty’s order: the two-word vow that is all we may print of the Artemis poem; three epigrams that travel under her name in the Greek Anthology, elegant Hellenistic dedications and epitaphs that are almost certainly not hers and are part of her surviving corpus anyway, because the ancients curated her that way; the scraps the editors cannot decide between Sappho and Alcaeus; two quotations whose own quoting authors give the game away — Athenaeus doubts the Anacreon stanza in the act of citing it; and finally the single words, reported one at a time by men who cared that she said dawn a particular way. Assembly is the point: most editions print a selection and stop. This gathers the leavings — numbered, sourced, doubts declared — so that the whole of what survives is actually here.