Classic Poem

Six nights have gone; and still I wait at home;
And still she does not come.
Only a fragrance lingering in the air
Reminds me of my fair.
Yet every eve the golden-horned moon
Looks down to see her flown,
And those bright stars that sink unto their rest
Within great Ocean's breast.
A witch is she: methinks I'll hunt her down
And seek through all the town,
Her silver-footed hounds from Venus borrow
And tarre them on. The chase begins to-morrow.