Classic Poem

Alone on arid Phrygian sands
Pale Niobe a statue stands,
And Progne, all her sorrows done,
A flitting swallow twitters on.
But if I underwent, I wis,
Some pleasing metamorphosis,
Ah sweet! thy mirror I would be
That thou might'st often gaze at me.
And I would be thy silken vest,
That thou might'st fold me to thy breast;
Would that I were a cooling wave
Thy soft and rosy limbs to lave.
Thy perfume I would be, my fair,
Mixed in the torrents of thy hair;
I fain would be thy girdle placed
Chastely around thy shapely waist;
A necklace I would be enwound
Closely thy arching neck around;
Or e'en thy slipper I would be
By thy trim foot pressed daintily.