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.