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Poem by Mary Robinson


Sonnet 8. Why, Through Each Aching Vein


Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, 
While, from its source, each wild convulsive start
Tears the scorchd roses from my burning face?
In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace;
Vain is the poets theme, the sculptors art;
No more the Lyre its magic can impart,
Though wakd to sound, with more than mortal grace!
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame;
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!
Oh! may thecstatic thought in bosom move,
And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame!



Mary Robinson


Mary Robinson's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 40. On the Low Margin
  2. Sonnet 42. Oh! Canst Thou Bear
  3. Sonnet 24. O Thou! Meek Orb
  4. Stanzas Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest
  5. The Widows Home


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