I am Prometheus, but your dreams conceive
New subtle desolations for desire,
Holding aloft the gold unbroken bowl.
What wisdom of black art can so deceive?
For though it is the guerdon of my soul,
I cannot reach to steal that Titan fire.
2
Let the Hippolytuses make their prayers
To altars of cold death, and let them take
The dead results their clear libations make,