Peplophoros

I've waited so long that I've gone out of style,
Capering Arcadian with archaic smile,
But losing oneself to Edwardian books
Is better than caring for god-given looks.

I'd rather be feathered and berried and small
Than casting pink petals to one and to all,
I'd rather be shell-kept and lamp-light the way;
The letters of Keats gently whisper to stay.

Sparrows are sent oh-so-coy from the sea,
Cheeping sweet nothings of Aphrodite.
'Hurry,' they chorus, all fluttering by,
But the boy on the shore has me sheltered and shy.

And others care not for such trivial things,
'Just follow Anais!' some merry muse sings,
But closeness comes never so natural to me,
A fern always grown in the shade of a tree.

And others care not for such worrisome thoughts,
Forever enraptured by tenderer sports,
Revelling in paintings where Zeus' loves roam,
But I cling to those not of Cyprian foam.

Well, Daphnis and Chloe in fields had their day
But Eros brought Paris deceptive dismay,
No point picking apples in favour of looks,
Far better to dwell in the safety of books.