Camma

As one who poring on a Grecian urn

      Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,

      God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,

And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

And face the obvious day, must I not yearn

      For many a secret moon of indolent bliss

      When in the midmost shrine of Artemis

I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

And yet—methinks I 'd rather see thee play

      That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery

Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake

      Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,

      I am grown sick of unreal passions, make

The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!