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Mary Robinson (Мэри Робинсон)


Sonnet 20. Oh! I Could Toil For Thee


Oh! I could toil for thee o’er burning plains;
Could smile at poverty’s disastrous blow;
With thee, could wander ’midst a world of snow,
Where one long night o’er frozen Scythia reigns.
Sever’d from thee, my sick’ning soul disdains
The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to know,
And can’st thou give my days to endless woe,
Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains?
Away, false fear! nor think capricious fate
Would lodge a daemon in a form divine!
Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,
Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine;
Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare to hate,
Too proud to sue! too tender to resign!



Mary Robinson's other poems:
  1. Sonnet 13. Bring, Brick to Deck My Brow
  2. Ode to Valour
  3. Sonnet 9. Ye, Who in Alleys Green
  4. Sonnet 35. What Means the Mist
  5. The Confessor, a Sanctified Tale


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