Poetry Archives

Like the Idalian queen,
    Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen,
    At first glance of the morn
In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flow’rs
    Which of her blood were born,
I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The Graces naked danced about the place,
    The winds and trees amazed
    With silence on her gazed,
The flowers did smile, like those upon her face;
And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,
    That she might read my case,
A hyacinth I wish’d me in her hand.