Classic Poem

Let Petrarch sing his lady's clinging hand;
And Dante tell of calm, angelic eyes,
Holding the faultless color of clear skies;
Let Shakespeare chaunt, in numbers sweet and grand,
Of hair that shone like sunlight in the land;
And Spenser, of a voice, whose low replies
Made souls all armed to dare some great emprise,
Its melody to hold in fond command.
Yet even these, though mighty singers all,
Are not the lords to say whose grace is best,
Nor with their judgment my Love's charms eclipse;
Ah, but her mouth so dainty is, and small,
That I secure in this one thing can rest,
No kiss can match the one given by her lips.