Classic Poem

He had a many-coloured glance like flowers:
something of opals lay within his look:
and in the taper his strong shoulders took
was gleam and grace of tall and ivory towers.
He seemed as fresh as, after summer showers,
cool gardens seem. And as the hart the brook
thirsty I sought his mouth. Never was book
better perused than I his brow, long hours.
Two full carved rubies were his urgent lips.
Heavy as floating lilies on the Nile
hung the white waxen lids, behind whose smile
the jewels of Palmyra and of Spain
had tumbled to the windows of his brain.
Still past their lashes — still, the treasure slips?