Gongyla

GONGYLA

It was when the sunset
Burned with saffron fire,
And Apollo's coursers
Turned below the hills,

That on Mitylene's
Marble bridge we met,
Gongyla, thou golden
Maid of Colophon.

Like the breath of morning
Or a breeze from sea,
Fresh thy beauty smote me,
Virile of the north.

Startled by thy vision,
Transports half divine
Flooded veins and bosom,
Shook me with desire.

Soon the kinder sunglow
Of Æolic lands
Melted all the futile
Snows about thy heart.