Camma

　　（To Ellen Terry）

　　As one who poring on a Grecian urn¹

　　Scans the fair shapes some Attic² hand hath made，

　　God with slim goddess， goodly man with maid，

　　And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

　　And face the obvious day， must I not yearn³

　　For many a secret moon of indolent bliss⁴，

　　When in midmost shrine⁵ of Artemis

　　I see thee standing⁶， antique-limbed， and stern？

　　And yet - methinks I'd rather see thee play

　　That serpent of old Nile， whose witchery

　　Made Emperors drunken， - come， great Egypt， shake

　　Our stage with all thy mimic⁷ pageants⁸！ Nay⁹，

　　I am grown sick of unreal passions， make

　　The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！