Classic Poem

The rose no garland needs, nor you, my queen,
Proud silken robes and veils of jewelled sheen;
Pearls cannot match your bosom lying bare,
Nor gold the glory of your tangled hair.
The burning sapphires of the Indian mine
Before you pale; your eyes more brilliant shine.
Your close-joined breasts Love's magic girdle make
And bees their honey from your wet lips take.
Nay, I would never dare before your throne to come,
Save that in those bright eyes soft Hope still makes his home.