Classic Poem

Turning down, goatherd, by the oaks, you'll see
A fig-tree statue, put up recently,
Three-footed, with the bark on, without ears;
Yet plain enough Priapus it appears.
A sacred hedge runs round it; and a brook,
Flowing from out a little gravelly nook,
Keeps green the laurel and the myrtle trees,
And odorous cypresses:
And there 's a vine there, heaping all about
Its tendrilled clusters out;
And vernal blackbirds through the sprays
Shake their shrill notes a thousand ways;
And yellow nightingales reply,
Murmuring a honied song deliciously.
Sit you down there; and the kind god implore,
That I may yearn for Psamathe no more;
Myself with a fine kid will follow you,
And sacrifice; and should the deity nod,
A heifer and a goat shall thank him too,
And a house-lamb. Hear then, kind-hearted god.