The Nymph of the Spring (Lucas Cranach the Elder), Sonnet #562

 

There still sleep secret sacred springs

Fed by streams from porous rock,

By dreams of dozing huntress nymphs.

Their arrows aren’t aimed at wings,

But men who would touch key to lock

Of their delicately draped limbs.

While a short walk from the old town

The spring is seldom discovered

By hunter or would-be lover,

Or princess in her silken gown.

Unnatural havoc attends

Disturbing of the nymph at rest.

The springs boil and mists ascend

To poison the unwanted guest.

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