Sappho and Phaon, by Mary Robinson, , at sacred-texts.com
Oh! I could toil for thee oer burning plains;
Could smile at povertys disastrous blow;
With thee, could wander midst a world of snow,
Where one long night oer frozen Scythia reigns.
Severd from thee, my sickning soul disdains
The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to know,
And canst thou give my days to endless woe,
Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains?
Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate
Would lodge a daemon in a form divine!
Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,
Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine;
Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate,
Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!