Classic Poem

Tell me, my thoughts (for you each minute fly,
And see those beauties which mine eyes have lost,)
Is any worthier love beneath the sky?
Would not the cold Norwegian mix'd with frost
(If in their clime she were) from her bright eyes
Receive a heat, so pow'rfully begun,
In all his veins and numbered arteries,
That would supply the lowness of the sun?
I wonder at her harmony of words,
Rare (and as rare as seldom doth she talk)
That rivers stand not in their speedy fords,
And down the hills the trees forbear to walk:
But more I muse why I should hope in fine
To get a Love, a Beauty so divine.