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A Year of Poetry – Day 262

What slender youth, bedew’d with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
             Pyrrha? For whom bind’st thou
             In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
Of faith and changed gods complain, and seas
             Rough with black winds, and storms
             Unwonted shall admire!
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who, always vacant, always amiable
             Hopes thee, of flattering gales
             Unmindful. Hapless they
To whom thou untried seem’st fair. Me, in my vow’d
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung
             My dank and dropping weeds
             To the stern god of sea.
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