Classic Poem

Her face were a moon, if o'er the moon could a cloud of musk blow free;
And her stature a cypress, if cypresses bore flowers of anemone.
For if to the crown of the cypress-tree could anemone-clusters cling,
Perchance it might be accounted right such musk o'er the moon to fling.
For her rounded chin and her curvéd tress, alack! her lovers all
Lend bended backs for her polo-sticks, and a heart for the polo-ball!
Yet if hearts should ache through the witchery of the Harut-spells of her eye,
Her rubies twain are ever fain to offer the remedy.