Classic Poem

What though I think, my thoughts of thee
Find nothing with thee to compare.
Can Beauty's fairer sister be
By Beauty's garments made more fair?
In dreams I see the rose-crowned hills
That hide in silvery clouds of lace,
While through and through and through me thrills
The gentle influence of thy face;
The loving lips so quick to ope—
True sentinels each pearly tooth—
The forehead like a hill of hope—
The eyes beneath, like springs of truth!
Wild storm and wind may rack the skies,
And rolling thunder vex the air,
They cast no shadow on thy eyes—
I gaze in them—the day is fair!
What though another's ships have sped
To search the East for spices rare?
I will but bend above thy head
And catch the perfume of thy hair.
So doth thy precious beauty soar,
A temple white and free from wrong,
Whose years but make it, more and more,
So like a flower, so like a song.
And thou art mine, a gift too grand,
As if a shepherd, proud but poor,
Should woo and win a princess' hand,
Or beggar find a Kohinoor.