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The Poems of Sappho, by John Myers O'Hara, [1910], at sacred-texts.com
O Sappho, why art thou ever
Singing with praises the blessed
Queen of the heaven?
Why does the heart in thy bosom
Ever revert in its yearning
Throb to the Goddess?
Why are thy senses unsated
Ever in quest of elusive
Love that is deathless?
Ah, gracious Daughter of Cyprus,
Never can I as a mortal
Tire of thy service.
Thou art the breath of my body,
The blood in my veins, and the glowing
Pulse of my bosom.
Omnipotent, burning, resistless,
Thou art the passion that shaking
Masters me ever.
Thou art the crisis of rapture
Relaxing my limbs, and the melting
Ebb of emotion;
Bringing the tears to my lashes,
Sighs to my lips, in the swooning
Excess of passion.
O golden-crowned Aphrodite,
Grant I shall ever be grateful,
Sure of thy favor;
Worthy the lot of thy priestess,
Supreme in the song that forever
Rings with thy praises.