(From the Painting of John William Waterhouse)
In rose twists her rear red hair goes,
In rich patterns her green gown flows,
To the briar crowned wall she draws close
To pluck a rose nigh to her nose.
To its sweetness her senses bows,
Langour comes over her with blows.
Fond of the breath rich of the rose
To be drawn to pleasure it sows.
Of solids, her senses it slows.
On its soul, her heart takes repose.
Its intimate blown beauty glows,
From which her heart delighted grows,
Drives her eyes shut, her face she shows
Up where the rays down the sun throws.
To its allure her heart she owes,
With sunlight much her heart it stows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very passionate with much feeling. 10