Classic Poem

Come , master of the rosy art,
Thou painter after my own heart,
Come, paint my absent love for me,
As I shall describe her thee.
Paint me first her fine dark hair,
Fawning into ringlets there;
And if brush has power to do it,
Paint the odour breathing through it.
Then from out her ripe young cheek,
Underneath those tresses sleek,
Paint her brow of ivory;
Taking care the eyebrows be
Not apart, nor mingled neither,
But as hers are, stol'n together;
Met by stealth, yet leaving too
O'er the eyes their darkest hue.
Then as those bright orbs require,
Fetch her eyesight out of fire;
Like Minerva's, sparkling blue;
Moist, like Cytherea's, too:
Give her nose and cheeks a tint
Like shallow milk with roses in't:
Let her lip Persuasion's be,
Asking ours provokingly:
And beneath her satin chin,
With a dimple broken in,
And all about those precious places,
Set a thousand hovering graces.
Now then,—let the drapery spread,
With an under tint of red,
And a glimpse left scarcely drest,
So that what remains be guessed.
'Tis enough: 'tis she! 'tis she!
O thou sweet face, speak to me.