Pure beauty was the love of that young boy,
For fine-tuned song, an orison of grace,
The seasons' several blooms, the sense, the joy
Of man in subjects that hold beauty's trace.
Naïvely and innately did he taste
The latent miracles creation births
And praised them with his care and earnest faith,
Perceiving everything's partaking worth.
His supple limbs untouched by doubt or age,
How many days we sported head to head
Or arm in arm made love and song, a sage
Embodied in a kritios's bed.
The Feminine divine throughout his way;
The Masculine refined without decay.
A place for my poems 