Only the lover, perhaps, fresh from the dreams of the loved one,
His blood still warm from her kisses, salutes thee with joy,
Beholds with delight thy face, and feels thy cool breathing upon him:
Then cries, “O bear me, Aurora, upon thy swift courser of flame,—
“Bear me up into the fields of the stars, that there, looking down,
I may behold the earth beneath thy rosy light smiling,—
“Behold my fair one in the face of the rising day,
Let fall her black tresses down over her blushing bosom.”
Odi Barbare.