Pray, tell me, must the North Wind blow and sweep by rule?
Must he the virgin ponds and springs and rills avoid?
See how the ocean, panting, rising, overjoyed,
Holds out her arms to him,—why not the limpid pool?
And thou, O human Ocean,—would that I could give
In equal measure, when beneath me thou art parting!
O, generous, fiery soul, in love though I am wanting,
My flesh, within thy passion's hearth, will glow and live.
Thou art the twilight; I'm the dawn; yet we shall meet
And flood the firmament with fire and rainbow beauty.
No unfed sun or moon shall rob us of our booty,
And if the gods should frown,—is not rebellion sweet?
But ah, live Twilight! why cannot the Dawn be true?
Why can't I quaff from thy sad lips, as thou, from mine?
Why can't this heart, forgetting once, as well be thine?
How can I my most holy passion tame, subdue?
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