She is crowned with her triumphs and towers,
And blue run the veins in her arms;
Like the lotus, afloat with her flowers,
Her whiteness hath wonderous charms;
Delicious her lips are, with powers
Circean, yet void of alarms;
And the mortal that dreams of her bowers
Leaves his soul in her arms.
Yet should time, ever eager, though olden,
Her fairness despoil and depose;