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Mary Darby Robinson - Sonnet XX: Oh! I Could Toil For Thee
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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!
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