Hyporcheme
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Hyporcheme
HYPORCHEME
Thus contend the maidens
In the cretic dance,
Rosy arms that glisten,
Eyes that glance;
Cheeks as fair as blossoms,
Parted lips that glow,
With their honeyed voices
Chanting low;
With their plastic bodies
Swaying to the flute,
Moving with the music
Never mute;
Graceful the orchestric
Figures they unfold,
While the vesper heaven
Turns to gold.
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