GYRINNO Now the silver crescent Of the moon has vanished, With the golden Pleiads Drifting down the west. It is after midnight And the time is passing, Hours we pledged to passion And I sleep alone. Anger ill becomes thee, Tender-souled Gyrinno, Shapelier is Dica But less loved by me. Art thou still relentless, Wilful one, annulling All thy protestations In the fervid past? Can it, O Charites, Be thou hast forgotten? Dost thou love another, Even now, perchance? Ah, my tears are falling, Yet in my despairing Mood I lie and listen For thy furtive step; For the lightest rustle Of thy flowing
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