What sort of wild temptress is this
That tears at the memory’s core,
That conjures and courts to dismiss
And knows not what tempting is for?

What softness of speech and of eye
That seduces a man from his lust,
When he knows that he’s never to try
But feels that he should, and he must?

And why, in the stillness of night
When the world filters down at the rim,
Does he stare at the long fading light
And despair at her image of him?

David Lewis Paget