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The Poems of Sappho, by John Myers O'Hara, [1910], at sacred-texts.com
And down I set the cushion
Upon the couch that she,
Relaxed supine upon it,
Might give her lips to me.
As some enamored priestess
At Aphrodite's shrine,
Entranced I bent above her
With sense of the divine.
She had, by nature nubile,
In years a child, no hint
Of any secret knowledge
Of passion's least intent.
Her mouth for immolation
Was ripe, and mine the art;
And one long kiss of passion
Deflowered her virgin heart.