The Offended Moon

O moon, O lamp of hill and secret dale! Thou whom our fathers, ages out of mind, Worshipped in thy blue heaven, whilst behind Thy stars streamed after thee a glittering trail,

Dost see the poet, weary-eyed and pale, Or lovers on their happy beds reclined, Showing white teeth in sleep, or vipers twined, 'Neath the dry sward; or in a golden veil

Stealest thou with faint footfall o'er the grass As of old, to kiss from twilight unto dawn The faded charms of thine Endymion?...

"O child of this sick century, I see Thy grey-haired mother leering in her glass And plastering the breast that suckled thee!"

TO THEODORE DE BANVILLE,

1842

So proud your port, your arm so powerful, With such a grip you grip the goddess' hair, That one might take you, from your casual air, For a young ruffian flinging down his trull.

Your clear eye flashing with precocity, You have displayed yourself proud architect Of fabrics so audaciously correct That we may guess what your ripe prime will be.

Poet, our blood ebbs out through every pore; Is it, perchance, the robe the Centaur bore, Which made a sullen streamlet of each vein,

Was three times dipped within the venom fell Of those old reptiles fierce and terrible Whom, in his cradle, Hercules had slain?