Why is my faithful maid distressed?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue.
Shuns he thy gifts?—He soon shall give.
Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,
And soon to all thy wishes bow.
And Swinburne's paraphrase—
For I beheld in sleep the light that is
In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss
Of body and soul that mix with eager tears