Classic Poem

Nay, burn not dim, dear lamp; for so
My lover will not come.
Your wick foreshadows rain, men know,
And he will stay at home.

You grudge the Cyprian her delight
As when Leander came
To seek his Hero thro' the night;
But hush—speak not his name.

You are the slave of Vulcan grim
And care for none beside;
To soothe his pain you flatter him
And vex his wanton bride.