Here
is
my heart, it beats
More lovingly than a clock
(I search about for feats
To astound the unmoved rock).
The Sailors root in the stye,
Transformed from man to beast,
While you at the table sigh,
And will not touch the feast.
As
you sit dejected there,
With gaze so far removed,
I wonder I should care
To think I am reproved.
Yet if the moment's granted,
I am a goddess still,
And you are disenchanted,
Odysseus, speak your will.
