Camma

　　（To Ellen Terry）

　　As one who poring on a Grecian urn

　　Scans the fair shapes some Attic 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 yearn

　　For many a secret moon of indolent bliss，

　　When in midmost shrine of Artemis

　　I see thee standing， 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 mimic pageants！ Nay，

　　I am grown sick of unreal passions， make

　　The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！