| |
|
Had I a man's
fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly
through that ivory shell,
Thine ear, and find thy
gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the
enterprise:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no
happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled
with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I dote upon thee,
-call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied
roses
When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when
the moon her pallid face discloses,
I'll gather some
by spells, and incantation
|
|
|
