Shakespearian1

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.