It was as though I'd lived within a single Winter's night
'Till first I drank of Dawn from where his fingers dripped her hue,
And heard upon his honeyed lips such symphonic delights-
That song of Spring which swore to bring both Sun and Morning Dew
One thousand years might come to pass yet never could I know,
An Image half so haunting as those opalescent eyes,
Which silver-limned in lunar light so lovely did they glow,
That every star did sulk in shame when glanced he to the skies.
With winged-words so sweetly heard from gilded tongue did gush,
To thaw the frost upon my skin and in my blood and hair,
Oh! Cypris wrists were slit to ink the crimson of his blush,
For never grew on Gaia's breast a single rose so fair.
So when his hand he did extend inviting for a dance,
-though on his palms I read the woeful fates our waltz would weave-
I lent neither care to warning, nor stole a second glance,
For what, to me, was tragedy when I could kiss that cheek?
Relentless poets shan't forget and still decry our shame;
The Tales of armies slain shall ever echo from their lips.
They sing of how you shared my silks while men died in your name,
And of how I burnt a city and launched a thousand ships.
They sing of how we both endowed a catastrophic Pyre,
Yet can't contrive with reason why we did as we have done
-Or won't admit the folly, so noble on their lyres-
That human penchant to be bought with beauty and with fun.

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