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Poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes Song of the Stygian Naiades Proserpine may pull her flowers, Wet with dew or wet with tears, Red with anger, pale with fears; Is it any fault of ours, If Pluto be an amorous king And come home nightly, laden Under his broad bat-wing With a gentle earthly maiden? Is it so, Wind, is it so? All that I and you do know Is that we saw fly and fix 'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx, Yesterday, Where the Furies made their hay For a bed of tiger cubs, A great fly of Beelzebub's, The bee of hearts, which mortals name Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame. Proserpine may weep in rage, But ere I and you have done Kissing, bathing in the sun, What I have in yonder cage, She shall guess and ask in vain, Bird or serpent, wild or tame; But if Pluto does 't again, It shall sing out loud his shame. What hast caught then? What hast caught? Nothing but a poet's thought, Which so light did fall and fix 'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx, Yesterday, Where the Furies made their hay For a bed of tiger cubs, A great fly of Beelzebub's, The bee of hearts, which mortals name Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame. Thomas Lovell Beddoes Thomas Lovell Beddoes's other poems:
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