O Venus, As the somber drums echo my heavy feet During the plight of wilted roses To which gray fog lingers against my skin, I pray to you, O Venus, Let your red arrows strike Softer than lightning; Let the silky white doves fly High in the blue heavens. O Venus, I wither away from gaiety; Into moiety, I become. As petals crumble, And the thunder rolls, O Venus, I know not what might come, For the clouds defeat the sun, The night eats the moon, And the waters rise before noon. O Venus, Take pity on me. I may not all be the Helen of Troy, But grant solace on me, a Hestia, A quiet voice and not by choice, O Venus.
Shakespearian1 