XLI

To say my Love is beautiful, to praise
The penciled arches of her ivory brow,
Or those twin lights of intellect that glow
Through their long fringe with such a softened blaze;
Or the sweet moisture of that dewy haze
On her rich lips; or, bolder yet, to show
The lithe curves rounding her cool limbs; and go
Through all the graces of her pretty ways:--
To do but this were only to perform
Stale homage to her beauty. Any eye
May wonder at her brow, her lip, her arm;
But as I gaze, my pausing heart grows warm
With a strange heat, whose secret sources lie
Rather in me than in her matchless form.