Camma Camma （To Ellen Terry） As one who poring on a Grecian urn¹ Scans the fair shapes some Attic² hand hath made， God with slim goddess， goodly man with maid， And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn And face the obvious day， must I not yearn³ For many a secret moon of indolent bliss⁴， When in midmost shrine⁵ of Artemis I see thee standing⁶， antique－limbed， and stern? And yet － methinks I'd rather see thee play That serpent of old Nile， whose witchery Made Emperors drunken， － come， great Egypt， shake Our stage with all thy mimic⁷ pageants⁸！ Nay⁹， I am grown sick of unreal passions， make The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！