As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
   When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
   So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, 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 griev’d that 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 kiss’d, and fair the form
I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

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