Poems (Cary)/Thisbe

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THISBE.
Sunset's pale arrows shivering near and far!— A little gray bird on an oaken tree,Pouring its tender plaint, and eve's lone star Resting its silver rim upon the sea!
In dismallest abandonment she lies— The undone Thisbe, witless of the night,Locking the sweet time from her mournful eyes With her thin fingers, a most piteous sight.
O'er her soft cheek the sprouting grasses lean, And the round moon's gray, melancholy lightCreeps through the darkness, all unfelt, unseen, And folds her tender limbs from the chill night.
Pressing your cold hands over rushy springs, And making your chaste beds in beaded dewAbout her, Nereides, draw your magic rings, And wreath her golden-budded hopes anew.
For by the tumult of thick-coming sighs, The aspect wan that hath no mortal name,I know the wilful god of the blind eyes Hath sped a love-shaft with too true an aim.
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