Metamorphosis

If she who, born to Tantalus,
As Niobe we know,
Was turned to stone among the hills
Of Phrygia long ago;
If Proene by such magic change
Was made a bird that flies,
Let me become the mirror
That holds my lady's eyes!
Or let me be the water
In which your beauty bathes,
Or the dress which clinging closely
Your gracious presence swathes;
Or change me to the perfume
You sprinkle on your skin,
Or let me be the pearl-drop
That hangs beneath your chin;
And if not these the girdle
You bind below your breast;
Or be at least the sandal
Your little foot hath pressed.