Sappho — 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.         Turns to gold.