She was a Botticelli angel—
Like Cypris Aphrodite rising from the sea,
She meandered into my sultry summer dream,
And danced her way across that fateful stream,
Beyond which there shrouded in secret scenery—
A cleft in time waiting
For the perfect being.
By either sweet saint or dear devil,
I was in my vain attempt to follow
Her barefooted trace, her scented white dress,
And something beyond imagining her wild eyes did express—
O! Had my life not been but a walking shadow,
Tokens though she’d given,
She’d surely then give heaven!
But alas, my failed gaze fell onto the path of gravel
That bore her lovely tread, and my downcast dread:
Never in life—shall I behold her again—
A phantom so fair, yet a flower of pain!
And the pain lays me entangled, in my sorrow-laden bed,
By the melancholy string
Three Fates are fashioning!
So on a rock volcanic and novel,
But also antique, for men are new,
A classical maiden with classical grace
Unfettered herself from her mortal place;
Like the swan, so timeless, she so timely flew,
Left my daylight—taken,
And my young heart—broken.
