Tell me,
Was Venus more beautiful Than you are,
When she topped The crinkled waves,
Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell?
Was Botticelli's vision Fairer than mine;
And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady,
Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver?
For me You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air,
Cinctured by bright winds,
Treading the sunlight.
And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet.
