so like the fair Narcissus.

with trembling fingers

numbed as though

’twere marbled features

they traced —

the chiselled profile of

bones so finely wrought

that accent a brow so fine

and cheeks so sharp

against a jaw so firm;

what thickly lashed

mysterious pools of black

that reflect a haughty glint,

and such a mouth

that marbled though

exudes a warmth

that lures me as

there my fingers stop, moist.

what mystic marble

from what land begot

are you carved from,

that breathes as man,

and in my arms

is warmer than a furnace?

what steely strength is it

that through your fingers

courses, that causes me

to bend, inferior to

your might though

like a summer breeze

you blow?

what strange alliance have you

with what gods in

distant peaks —

perchance

the strength of

Hercules’ smith

or is it Eros’ breath?

nay, Hermes has but lent

his wings that swift

your words fly home

to me and i

am snared within

your arms and helpless

in your sight —

but for your beauty and

your charms i

would not with Echo vie.

have you no moment but

to spare than but

to gaze

at your reflection?

ah, vanity, thy name is man!

what then can women serve?

so like the fair Narcissus,

would that you were

my love.