Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible
That shall command my heart and me:
Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal
In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe
Of studied fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps tread our earth:
Till that
Idea take
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;
Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called my absent kisses:
I wish her
That owes not all its
To gaudy tire, or glistening shoe-tie:
Something more
Tafetta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the
Of shop, or silkworm's toil,
Or a bought brush, or a set smile.
A Face that's
By its own beauty dressed,
And can alone commend the restA Face, made
Out of no other
Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.
A Cheek, where
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box its being owes.
Lips, where all dayA lover's kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that
Their riches tires, but
And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that
The neighbor diamond, and
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that
Jewels but to
How much themselves more precious are:
Whose native
Can tame the wanton
Of gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart,
For whose more noble
Love may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that
Full quivers on love's bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within Joys, that
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and
As the coy bride's, when night,
First does the longing lover right.
Days that need
No part of their
From a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days that, in
Of darkness, by the
Of a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers' play,
Yet long by the absence of the day.
Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, "Welcome, friend!"Sydneian
Of sweet discourse, whose
Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate'er
Can make Day's forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.
In her whole
Have Nature all the name;
Art and Ornament, the shame!
Her flattery,
Picture and Poesy:
Her counsel her own virtue be.
I wish her
Of worth may leave her
Of wishes; and I wish--no more.
Now, if Time
That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.'Tis She, and here,
Lo!
I unclothe and
My Wishes' cloudy character.
May She enjoy
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this
Shall fix my flying Wishes,
And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye:
Be ye my fictions--but her Story!
