Who was that goddess of whom the Greeks treat,
Born from the foam and setting feet
On Cypriot sands?
Well, I know one as fair as she,
So while her temples are fallen to debris,
Yet still she stands.
She has surpassed the dreams of the Greeks,
And diminished Cytherea's fame,
And the ghost of Rubens has broken his brush,
And the shade of Titian has wept for shame,
That they lived and died without knowing her name.
I am no Paris, and have no gold,
Nor gifts to give;
I had his treasure, but have sold
All that was his:
For vanquished are the Gods of old,
Yet M.D. lives.
