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 enterprize:
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 doat upon thee,–call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses
When steep’d 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.
You May Also Like:
- Specimen Of An Induction To A Poem
- Sonnet Ix. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are
- Sonnet. A Dream, After Reading Dante’s Episode Of Paulo And Francesca
- To George Felton Mathew
- Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born
- To A Cat
- The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
- Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher’s Tragi-Comedy ‘The Fair Maid Of The Inn’