  Lithe-armed, and with satin-soft shoulders As white as the cream-crested wave; With a gaze dazing every beholder’s, She holds every gazer a slave: Her hair, a fair haze, is outfloated And flared in the air like a flame; Bare-breasted, bare-browed and bare-throated— Too smooth for the soothliest name. She wiles you with wine, and wrings for you Ripe juices of citron and grape; She lifts up her lute and sings for you Till the soul of you seeks no escape; And you revel and reel with mad laughter, And fall at her feet, at her beck, And the scar of her sandal thereafter |
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