Classic Poem

A Flora's head; from eyes a shower
Of starlight over face and figure,
And in the mouth a sense of power,
And in the step a note of vigour.

Hair, blacker than the murkiest night;
No pads, no friz — lynx-eyes may scan it;
The forehead, a piece of lunar light,
Cut by an archway on white granite.

The column'd neck — but I must pause;
My senses reel — what if I lose 'em!
Old Hogarth's line — sweet beauty's laws
Are folded in that ample bosom.

A form — no angel's — rather hers
Who came with Neptune's sunny spray lit,
We'd swear, or else my judgment errs,
If you had wings to fly away with.

We met, once in the busy street,
And once when dancing ruled the season;
We did not dance — but yet your feet
Bore me along in spite of reason.

And so I sit to-day and weave
This little wreath of careless rhyming,
And half I joy, and half I grieve,
To know my name's beyond divining.

As one might sing to some sweet star
Upon the young night's forehead glowing,
I sing to you, so near — so far —
Hold on your radiant course unknowing.