Classic Poem

A half-moon drifting in the West
Lit by a sunset honey-clear
Is gilded rather like her breast —
Not quite, but near.

Pale rubbings from the moth's wing, marred
By caging fingers, also serve
For likeness of her bosom toward
Its small, small curve.

But that, unseen and only guessed,
This madrigal shall not convey:
My head lay never on that breast —
Nor never may.