Classic Poem

Beside the sycamore, in hesitating
maiden trembling, you unclasp your smock.
On the gay margin of the laughing stream
I wait for the loose covering to fall.

And there, spreading its coif towards your hair,
a leaf that seems of glass in the May sun
turns green the light of the refulgent ray,
imbedding you in an enormous gem.

Modesty in a virgin is a buckler;
and on your charms, no sooner bared, you loose
a prudent and abundant torrent of splendours.

You unbraid a cataract of curls,
and peerless tresses cover peerless beauty
and with their tips caress your flower-like feet.