Classic Poem

You , Atalanta, were so fleet,
Lend the magic of your feet,
Lend your rushing sandals slim
That I maYoutdistance him.

I would race with him, and show
How much faster I can go.

Then, when he, all wearily
Stops to rest beneath a tree,
Whisper to him that I will
Wait . . . beyond the farthest hill.