Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace <br />Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, <br />While, from its source, each wild convulsive start <br />Tears the scorch'd roses from my burning face? <br />In vain, O Lesbian Vales! your charms I trace; <br />Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art; <br />No more the Lyre its magic can impart, <br />Though wak'd to sound, with more than mortal grace! <br />Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove <br />That passion mocks the empty boast of fame; <br />Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love, <br />Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame! <br />Oh! may th'ecstatic thought in bosom move, <br />And sighs of rapture, fan the blush of shame!<br /><br />Mary Darby Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-viii-why-through-each-aching-vein/
