AT TWENTY-ONE

The rosy hills of her high breasts,

Whereon, like misty morning, rests

The breathing lace; her auburn hair,

Wherein, a star point sparkling there,

One jewel burns; her eyes, that keep

Recorded dreams of song and sleep;

Her mouth, with whose comparison

The richest rose were poor and wan;

Her throat, her form — what masterpiece

Of man can picture half of these!

She comes! a classic from the hand

Of God! wherethrough I understand

What Nature means and Art and Love,

And all the lovely Myths thereof.