As his movements twist and wind He plays havoc with my mind, Lightly tossing off his dress To be robed in loveliness. Now he writhes with supple ease Like a bough before the breeze, Gambols now as a gazelle In its covert on the fell. Now retreat, and now advance: How the reason he enchants, And upon the feelings plays As does Fortune with our days. Now he lithely screws his feet Till upon his head they meet, As the tempered sword will bend Till its handle grasps its end. |