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As Hermes
once took to his feathers light,
When lulled Argus,
baffled, swooned and slept,
So on a Delphic reed, my
idle spright
So played, so charmed, so conquered, so
bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
And seeing it asleep, so fled away,
Not to pure Ida
with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe, where Jove
grieved a day;
But to that second circle of sad Hell,
Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Of
rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
Their
sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
Pale were
the lips I kissed, and fair the form
I floated with,
about that melancholy storm.
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