Sappho and Phaon, by Mary Robinson, , at sacred-texts.com
Yes, I will go, where circling whirlwinds rise,
Where threatning clouds in sable grandeur lour;
Where the blast yells, the liquid columns pour,
And maddning billows combat with the skies!
There, while the Daemon of the tempest flies
On growing pinions through the troublous hour,
The wild waves gasp impatient to devour,
And on the rock the wakend Vulture cries!
Oh! dreadful solace to the stormy mind!
To me, more pleasing than the valleys rest,
The woodland songsters, or the sportive kind,
That nip the turf, or prune the painted crest;
For in despair alone, the wretched find
That unction sweet, which lulls the bleeding breast!