O pretty child,
your little heart will tremble before many men...

Your grandmother thinks
she is raising you among the lilies
as a sensible girl, but you have slipped down

to the flood-fields of hyacinth
where Kypris has unharnessed
her horses, and hitched them on a rope.

And you have burst, little foal, into the middle
of summer, exciting the hearts
of many idle poets,

Herotima, whom all men would ride.