Feel for me a brimming bowl, and let me in it drown my soul, but put there in some drug designed to banish woman from my mind. For I want not the stream inspiring that heats the sense with lude desiring. But I want, as deep a draft, as air from Lithy's waves was squawped, from my despairing breast to charm the image of the fairest form that air my reveling eyes beheld, that air my wandering fancy spell. Tisvane, away I cannot chase the melting softness of that face, the beaminess of those bright eyes, that breast earth's only paradise. My sight will never more be blessed, for all I see has lost its zest, nor with delight can I explore the classic page the Muses lore. Had she but known how beat my heart, and with one smile relieved its smart, I should have felt the sweet relief, I should have felt the joy of grief. Yet as a tusk and mid the snow of Lapland thinks on sweet Arno, even so forever shall she be the halo of my memory.