All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
You are as gold
as the half-ripe grain
that merges to gold again,
as white as the white rain
Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare
as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star
as bright Aldeboran or Sirius,
nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War;
Did her eyes slant in the old way?
was she Greek or Egyptian?
had some Phoenician sailor wrought her?