Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus'

The Spring wind fans her hair,
And after her fly little waves,
Her feet are shod in pearly shoon,
And down her foam-white breast do shine
Petals encarnadine.

Her eyes are deaths to care,
Her eyes of love are tender caves.
The blossoms blowing on the trees —
The leafy Spring's enchanted stir —
The humming of the golden bees —
All are the voice of her!
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