They are for you, O ye graces, just a few leaves by a poet
Onto your pure altar laid, buds of the rose beside,
Offered in confidence. Artists enjoy ateliers which are furnished
So as to make for a space Pantheon-like in decor:
Jupiter lowers that godly brow while his Juno looks upward;
Phoebus takes forward strides, shaking his curly head;
While phlegmatic Minerva peers down on us, frivolous Hermes
Seems to be looking askance, roguish, though tender as well.
But it's to Bacchus, the sensuous dreamer, Cythera sends glances
Bathed in sweetest desire—even in marble they're damp.
Thinking about his embrace and its pleasures, she seems to be asking
Shouldn't our glorious son here at our side stand erect?