​LESBIA

Hasten, Belovèd. The torches flicker in the cool night wind and the court pales in the moonlight. The guests laugh and sing, the flutes shrill and the floor slips with wine under the sandals of the dancing-girls.

Yet thou delayest, watching me from the corners of thine eyes, while the slave patiently fills thy cup once more . . . Hasten, Belovèd, ere I weep and be ashamed.

Somewhere the flowers wither upon a threshold—warm roses, slender myrtle and crocus from the sunny fields. They too have waited so long for thee . . .

Hasten, Belovèd. Surely the east is brightening for the sun. It is the breeze of morning that swirls the flaring torches . . . Hasten, Belovèd, ere I weep and be ashamed.