Sufficient now are thine.” ...
(Thomas Hardy, A Singer Asleep)
While perhaps Swinburne exaggerates in his praise of Sappho, he owes much to the great poetess of love:
Love’s priestess, mad with pain and joy of song,
Song’s priestess, mad with joy and pain of love.
(On the Cliffs)
He makes her say:
My blood was hot wan wine of love,
And my song’s sound the sound thereof,
The sound of the delight of it.