Galatea, whiter than the snowy privet petals,

 taller than slim alder, more flowery than the meadows,

 friskier than a tender kid, more radiant than crystal,

 smoother than the shells, polished, by the endless tides;

 more welcome than the summer shade, or the sun in winter,

 showier than the tall plane-tree, fleeter than the hind; 

 more than ice sparkling, sweeter than grapes ripening,

 softer than the swan’s-down, or the milk when curdled,

 lovelier, if you did not flee, than a watered garden.


Galatea, likewise, wilder than an untamed heifer,

harder than an ancient oak, trickier than the sea;

tougher than the willow-twigs, or the white vine branches,

firmer than these cliffs, more turbulent than a river,

vainer than the vaunted peacock, fiercer than the fire;

more truculent than a pregnant bear, pricklier than thistles,

deafer than the waters, crueller than a trodden snake;

oh, what I wish I could alter in you, most of all, is this:

that you are swifter than the deer, driven by loud barking,

swifter even than the winds, and the passing breeze.

 — Ovid

About ubu507

memory documentation and manipulation
This entry was posted in art, may contain nudity, Mythology, Woman. Bookmark the permalink.

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