The silver of the lyre
Cries, and thy silver feet
Like living flowers repeat
Thy body's silver fire.

What scents without a name
Within thy tresses hide?
What perfect roses died
To give thy mouth its flame?

Thy hands, uplifting, float
More delicate than Love's.
Thy breasts are two white doves
Whose moan is in thy throat.

As lyre and cithern swoon.
Thou lingerest, in thy pace
The panther's gift of grace.
Who glides below the moon.

O linger where I sigh
Above the golden wine.
And touch thy mouth to mine—
A scarlet butterfly.