Classic Poem

The beauty of no woman to my flesh
Is intimate spirit if she be not pale;
I love not roses that are dewy fresh
If on a cheek they tell no passionate tale;
And passion is the after-sunset breath
That withers them, wrinkling their petals white;
Also, since love is next of kin to death,
Let love foreshow the colours of that night.
There is a whiteness of thrice mortal fire,
And of this ardency immaculate,
Which is the seal of perfected desire,
The promise of desires yet passionate,
I would some ardent weariness should speak:
If not, I praise, but do not kiss, her cheek.