Classic Poem

They drive me mad, her rosy lips,
The vermeil gate of song,
Wherefrom my soul its nectar sips,
And her soft whispering tongue.

Her eyes a liquid radiance dart
Beneath their lashes close,
Traps to ensnare my fluttering heart
And rob me of repose.

Her breasts, twin sisters firmly grown,
A milky fountain pour,
Two hills that Love their master own,
More fair than any flower.

But hush! Why of her beauty make
A theme for idle ears?
From Midas' reeds a warning take
What comes to gossipers.