But All Must Be Endured ...

In Wild Friday at Poets United, Sanaa invites us to complete one of Sappho's fragments — this one:

In my eyes he matches the gods 

In my eyes he matches the gods, that man who

sits there facing you—any man whatever—

listening from close by to the sweetness of your

          voice as you talk, the

sweetness of your laughter: yes, that—I swear it—

sets the heart to shaking inside my breast, since

once I look at you for a moment, I can't

          speak any longer,

but my tongue breaks down, and then all at once a

subtle fire races inside my skin, my

eyes can't see a thing and a whirring whistle

          thrums at my hearing,

cold sweat covers me and a trembling takes

a hold of me all over: I'm greener than the

grass is and appear to myself to be little

          short of dying.

But all must be endured, since even a poor 

So here is my idea:

But All Must Be Endured ...

But all must endured, since even a poor

fellow may sit, laugh, speak with you, touch your hand—

even one utterly unworthy to stay

        near your sweet beauty.

He is privileged as a god, even if

you care nothing for him. He is free to bask

in your least glance, the slightest remark you let fall— 

        while I sit like stone.

Yes I, watching, show no sign of the turmoil

inwardly destroying me. My face is a mask.

Near fainting, yet I contain myself: remain

         still, silent, alone.

(I kept to the syllabic pattern of the original.)