Classic Poem

Who would have thought
That your mottled and your speckled,
Wavering and dappled,
Leaf-brown costume in the light,
Held at the shoulder
By an orchid's freckled anther,
Covering a bosom of an interrupted white,
Was but the pelt
That the Maiden, the Resistless,
Light of Heel, the Huntress,
Yes; the tall Toxophilite,
Skinned in the brakes
From a slowly dying panther,
Shot in the brakes
By her fatal arrow's flight?—
Nothing to do with a merciful mild amice;—
Too well I know, and it needs no second sight!
Ah, now I know;
I should long ago have guessed it
From your way who wear it,
It is nothing more than this:
Cruelty clings to it—
It is nothing but the chlamys
Covering, and showing up
The breast of Artemis!