TO CLAUDIA

It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes

Are sweeter far to me,

Than is the light of Summer skies

To captives just set free.

It is not that the setting sun

Is tangled in thy hair,

And recks not of the course to run,

In such a silken snare.

Nor for the music of thy words,

Fair Claudia, love I thee,

Though sweeter than the songs of birds

That melody to me.

It is not that rich roses rare

Within thy garden grow,

Nor that the fairest lilies are

Less snowy than thy brow.

Nay, Claudia,‘ t is that every grace

In thy dear self I find;

That Heaven itself is in thy face,

And also in thy mind.