Classic Poem

A tall west window opens up the glen
Festooned with multitudinous blooms unknown,
Some having faint sweet scent of cyclamen,
Some like May lilies dropt from Venus' zone
On Ida hill. I pluck a floweret: then
It flutters, trembles . . . seems to make a moan
Of murmurous music . . . from my fingers flies
A woman, winged, of Lilliputian size.