Friends, whom she lookt at blandly from her couch <br />And her white wrist above it, gem-bedewed, <br />Were arguing with Pentheusa: she had heard <br />Report of Creon's death, whom years before <br />She listened to, well-pleas'd; and sighs arose; <br />For sighs full often fondle with reproofs <br />And will be fondled by them. When I came <br />After the rest to visit her, she said, <br />'Myrtis! how kind! Who better knows than thou <br />The pangs of love? and my first love was he!' <br />Tell me (if ever, Eros! are reveal'd <br />Thy secrets to the earth) have they been true <br />To any love who speak about the first? <br />What! shall these holier lights, like twinkling stars <br />In the few hours assign'd them, change their place, <br />And, when comes ampler splendour, disappear? <br />Idler I am, and pardon, not reply, <br />Implore from thee, thus questioned; well I know <br />Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but once.<br /><br />Walter Savage Landor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/myrtis/
