Classic Poem

Than this great universe no less
Can serve her praises to express.
Betwixt her eyes, the poles of love,
The host of heavenly beauties move,
Depainted in their proper stories,
As well the fixed as wandering glories,
Which from their proper orbs not go,
Whether they gyre swift or slow;
Where from their lips, when she doth speak,
The music of those spheres do break,
Which their harmonious motion breedeth;
From whose cheerful breath proceedeth
That balmy sweetness that gives birth
To every offspring of the earth;
The structure of whose general frame,
And state wherein she moves the same,
Is that proportion, heaven's best treasure,
Whereby it doth all poise and measure,
So that alone her happy sight
Contains perfection and delight.