Moon with dark eyes, goddess with horses black,
That steer you up and down, and high and low,
Never remaining long, when once they show,
Pulling your chariot endlessly there and back:
My desires and yours are never a match,
Because the passions that pierce your soul,
And the ardours that inflame mine so,
Court different desires to ease their lack.
For you, on Latmos, fondling your sleeping boy,
Would always wish some languid ploy
As restraint for your flying chariot:
But I whom Love devours all night long,
Wish from evening onwards for the dawn,
To find the daylight that your night forgot.