TO THE APHRODITE
Thou art the source of all the loves; truly thou art very fair. Yet who could say I am not fairer still?
Thy rounded limbs are cold like snow while mine are yielding and warm, glowing with quivering life at a lover's touch. Thy lips which seem so beautiful are white and hard, while mine are like red poppies, tremulous and sweet. No perfumed breath exhales from thee, nor canst thou gasp thine ecstasy into a silenced ear.
Yet I adore thee, for thou art immortal and divine. In the twilight of the sanctuary, thy pure and flawless limbs will glow through the eddying incense after my own, so beautiful now, have crumbled into dust. Men will look up to thee long after remembrance of me has passed away, and still thou wilt inflame their quickening desire when my frail shade is lost among the dead.
22
