Her nose is not the rigid Phidian line,
From tip straight upward to the low-grown hair,
A line too perfect, too severe and rare
For features modeled not to be divine.
My love is mortal, and her brows' decline
Hollows a concave at the eyes; and fair
With rosy tints her nostrils; and the air
Moves, as she breathes, their channels light and fine.
Pleased with the balmy breath that glides below,
Land-breeze or sea-breeze from an isle of spice,
When times are calm, they gently fall and rise.
But happy I have seen them pant and glow
With stormy passion, vibrate to and fro,
Sigh an appeal I never needed twice.