Like myriad lips rise up the clouds to greet,—
To kiss their gloomy forms, and sullen cheeks.
And love torments her with its ceaseless fire.
Her waters foam, and writhe, and are convulsed,
Yet never may they reach their heart’s desire,—
Restlessly sobbing, ever more repulsed.
And from her gloomy throne,
Behind the clouds, alone,
The moon beheld it with her sleepless eye.
And told the Poet how she did espy