I thought that I was wholly free,
That I had Love upon the shelf;
"Hereafter," I declared in glee,
"I'll have my evenings to myself."
How can such mortal beauty live?
(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)
Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold;
Her hands are featly formed and taper;
Her--well, the rest ought not be told
In any modest family paper.
Fair as Ischomache, and bright
As Brimo. Quæque queen is right.
O goddesses of long ago,
A shepherd called ye sweet and slender.
He saw ye, so he ought to know;
But sooth to her ye must surrender.
O may a million years not trace
A single line upon that face!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem