I do not love thee for that
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be
Finer than threads of lawn,
And are softer than the
On which the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those
Growing on thy cheeks, love's bowers;
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red:
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those
Red coral lips I've kissed so oft,
Nor teeth of pearl, the double
To speech whence music still is heard;
Though from those lips a kiss being
Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee,
O my fairest,
For that richest, for that
Silver pillar, which stands
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neck be whiter
Than towers of polished ivory are.
