The red blood stings through her cheeks and clings

In their tan with a fever that lightens;

And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs

In her dark eyes dusks and brightens:

Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings

With the youths in the sinewy games,

When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,

And the circus roars hoarse with their names,

As they fly to the goal that flames.

Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweep

Through the musical reeds of a river;

A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,

With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:

A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap

With crimson and gold the ground;

Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,

And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;

The creating might of her hands of heat

As a god's or a goddess's spacious:

The odorous blood in her heart a-beat

Is rich with a perishless fire;

And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat

Of a mother who never will tire,

While the world has a breath to suspire.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bears

Fecundity; powers that thicken

The fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian mares

Of old mysteriously quicken:—

The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,

The wine, great grape-clusters hold,

These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares

In the corn's long billows of gold,

And flowers that jewel the wold.

So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,

And the glory she wears in her tresses!