I’d like to turn the deepest of yellows,
Falling, drop by drop, in a golden shower,
Into her lap, my lovely Cassandra’s,
As sleep is stealing over her brow.
Then I’d like to be a bull, white as snow,
Transforming myself, for carrying her,
In April, when, through meadows so tender,
A flower, through a thousand flowers, she goes.
I’d like then, the better to ease my pain,
To be Narcissus, and she a fountain,
Where I’d swim all night, at my pleasure:
And I’d like it, too, if Aurora would never
Light day again, or wake me ever,
So that this night could last forever.