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    by Oscar Wilde
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    (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!
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