I think of you, Myrtho, divine enchantress
Of proud Posilipo, your million flames,
Your face flooded in the glimmer of the Orient,
& the black grapes that stained the gold of your braids.
In your sharp cup also I drank debauch
& in the quick flash of your grinning eyes,
When at Iacchus' feet I was seen suppliant
Because the muse has made me Greece 's only son.
I know why there the volcano reerupts…
Because yesterday you stroked it with your expert foot,
& of a sudden the horizon buried in ash.
Since a Norman duke broke your terracotta gods,
Forever under Virgil's bay laurels,
The pale Hydrangea & the green Myrtle entwine.
n e x t
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