An agate black thy roguish eyes
Claim no proud lineage of skies,
No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,
Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.
Looped in thy raven hair's repose,
A hot aroma, one tame rose
Dies envious of that beauty where,—
By being near which,— it is fair.
Thy ears,— two dainty bits of song
Of unpretending charm, which wrong
Would jewels rich, whose restless fire
Courts coarse attention,— such inspire.
Slim hands, that crumple listless lace
About thy white breasts’ swelling grace,
And falter at thy samite throat,
To such harmonious efforts float.
Seven stars stop o'er thy balcony
Cored in taunt heaven's canopy;
No moon flows up the satin night
In pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.
From orange orchards dark in dew
Vague, odorous lips the West wind blew,
Or thou, a new Angelica
From Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.
Oh, stoop to me and speaking reach
My soul like song, that learned low speech
From some sad instrument, who knows?
Or bloom,— a dulcimer or rose.