Sonnet CCLXI:
She on the jealous gods’ Olympian hill,
Unrecognized as mortal, might have taken
The nectar cup from Hebe’s hand unshaken,
And lent her voice to Pan’s melodious trill.
Her kiss was sweeter than the entering bill
Which Jove gave Leda; and wild memories waken—
Frenzied, unearthly, which no tongue hath spaken—
How of her full embrace I took my fill.
Men called her perfect; she was perfect, too,
Within my youthful eyes, till sager proved,
Another shape within their vision grew.
For now I say, by no mere fancy moved,
Sifting the false discreetly from the true,
She was a gipsy to my own Beloved!
