Oh nymph of myth and legend
you breathed Olympian air
but now you breathe museums.
In place of draperies to wear
you're mantled with the dust
of all antiquity
of stone antiquity.

Once, belov'd of morning
you trod the edge of dawn
but now you're poised upon a plinth
of time-crazed marble born
and mantled with the dust
of all antiquity
of cold antiquity.

Yet Flora, in the quiet hours
between the rims of sunrise
perhaps you stir within your dust
and might be yet surprised
bending to remembered blooms
recalled from old antiquity
of your antiquity.