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.