Classic Poem

Go, pluck me laurel-leaves, dear Thestylis,
From any bough that shimmers in the moon;
To dread Selene pray the while, and miss
No single word of all the magic rune.
She, only she, can grant the lover's boon,
She, only she, restore a maiden's bliss;
He comes not now, my sweet, but soon, O soon,
He will be waiting, watching, for my kiss.
Twelve days; ah! is it twelve, since last we met?
Quick wind about the bowl the ruddy skein!
He has forgotten: cruel to forget!
But this red wool shall rouse him into pain,
This charm of charms shall wake his passion yet.
O good my goddess, bring my Love again!