  Why have you sought the Greeks, Eros, when such delight was yours in the far depth of sky: there you could note bright ivory take colour where she bent her face, and watch fair gold shed gold on radiant surface of porch and pillar: and ivory and bright gold, polished and lustrous grow faint beside that wondrous flesh and print of her foot-hold: Love, why do you tempt the Grecian porticoes? Here men are bent with thought and women waste fair moments gathering lint and pricking coloured stuffs to mar their breasts, while she, adored, wastes not her fingers, worn of fire and sword, wastes not her touch on linen and fine thread, wastes not her head in thought and pondering, Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford? |
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