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.