Atthan Dances - From

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.