Classic Poem

Think not, Clarissa , I love thee
For thy meer outside, though it be
A Heaven more clear than that men cloudless see.

Thine Eyes so pure and Chrystalline,
Once dead are worth no more than mine,
Nor can do greater wonders with their shine.

No 'tis thy soul, we may mix there,
Like two Perfumes in the soft air,
And as chast Incense play above the sphere.

So shall we on in progresse move
To clearer heights, and by this love
Grow still Ascentive till we centre Jove.

There shall men gaze our blest aboad,
And scarce mistaking voice't abroad,
That two souls purely mingled make a God.

For when two souls shall towre so high,
Without their flesh their rayes shall flye,
Like Emanations from a Deity.