Of old mysteriously quicken:—
The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,
The wine, great grape-clusters hold,
These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares
In the corn's long billows of gold,
And flowers that jewel the wold.
So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,
And the glory she wears in her tresses!
All hail to the balsam that dreams and drips
From her breasts that the light caresses!