Classic Poem

In all the land was not a maid
Could match her beauty white and red;
No decent veil she need to wear,
Deep-mantled in her royal hair,
Dun ripples, shot all through and through
With fiery gold; her eyes were blue
And clearer than a Summer wave
That murmurs in some sunless cave,
And over them her brow shone white,
Like the first low star that pricks the night,
And under them her mouth did redden,
Like ripe red clover, honey-laden;
But white as pear-bloom was her chin,
An elvish dimple played therein;
Her breast stirred softly up and down
Beneath the folding of her gown
As if a bird were prisoned there
That fluttered for the outer air,
And round and comely was each limb,
As doth a royal maid beseem.