Sappho — "You burn me."
You burn me.
You burn me.
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"My blood with gentle horrors thrilled: My feeble pulse forgot to play; I fainted, sunk, and died away."
"I want to tell you something but good taste. Restrains me."
"Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, at the very topmost top – the apple-gatherers have forgotten it – no, not forgotten it, but they could not reach it."
"No honey for me, if it comes with a bee."
"Sweet mother, I truly cannot weave my web; for I am o'erwhelmed through Aphrodite with love of a slender youth."
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