The creating might of her hands of heat
As a god's or a goddess's spacious:
The odorous blood in her heart a-beat
Is rich with a perishless fire;
And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat
Of a mother who never will tire,
While the world has a breath to suspire.
Wherever she fares her soft voice bears
Fecundity; powers that thicken
The fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian mares