MARY   ASHLEY   TOWNSEND.                 207
The wild bee woo the blossom with a hymn,
Or hidlen insect break its lance of sound
Against the obdurate silence.    Then she smiled,
At her own fears amused, and knew herself
In God's own image by that hidden pool.
Then from its bounds her wond'rous hair she loosed,
Hair glittering like spun glass, and bright as though
Shot full of golden arrows.   Down below
Her supple waist the soft and shimmering coils
Rolled in their bright abundance, goldener
Than was the golden wonder Jason sought.
Her fair hands then, like white doves in a net,
A moment fluttered 'mid the shining threads,
As with a dexterous touch she higher laid
The gleaming tresses on her shapely head,
Beyond the reach of rudely amorous waves.
Then from her throat her light robe she unclasped,
And dropped it downward with a blush that rose
The higher as the garment lower fell.
Then she cast off the sandals from her feet,
And paused upon the brink of that blue lake;
A sight too fair for either gods or men ;
An Eve untempted in her Paradise.
The waters into which her young eyes looked
Gave back her image with so true a truth
She blushed to look, but blushing looked again —
As maidens to their mirrors oft return
With bashful boldness, once again to gaze
Upon the crystal page that renders back
Themselves unto themselves, until their eyes
Confess their love for their own loveliness.
Her rounded cheeks, in each of which had grown,
With sudden blossoming, a fresh red rose,
She hid an instant in her dimpled hands,
Then met her pink palms up above her head,
And whelmed her white shape in the welcoming wave.
Around each lithesome limb the water twined,
And with their lucent raiment robed her form ;
And, as her hesitating bosom sunk