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 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 ’11 gather some by spells, and incantation.