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.