Hither! Hither! Shall I call the Moon?
Whose pallid face approves no human eye?
Who innocent bemusement greets with Death;
And changing, alters not in chastity?
Broad Ocean's tide shall wane upon the shore,
No more to wax; obeisant to this hand,
And Phoebus gilded carriage rest complaisant,
Yet undeflowered will the Moon remain.
* * *
Who is that fool which breathes his restless sighs,
Upon the frosty air and sees them smoke?
Or dreams those dreams Reality belies,
And waking would his Genius invoke?
Like Tantalus his hand must ever reach,
Above, to pluck the fruit from hanging tree,
The angry gods his folly will impeach,
Forever more to feed his agony.
And still the Moon sits lofty in the sky,
To tantalize, and ne'er to be possessed,
She rapes the souls of men, and still they cry,
In futile rage; with vanity obsessed.
Return, thou dog! Her ravishment is sweet,
And though she kill me, yet will I entreat.