Classic Poem

How shall I sing to thee?
What shall the measure be,
Star of my reverie,
Loveliest Rosalie,
Purest of Pearls?
Smooth as thy forehead fair?
Sweet as thine eyelids are?
Soft as thy curls?

As from the starry vines
Of the white jessamines,
When the first planet shines,
Only at even,
Incense, the wanton day
Vainly would woo away,
Freed from the bending spray,
Rises to Heaven;

As in the forest dim,
Cradled in mossy rim,
Murmurs the fountain's hymn,
Seeking no river;
Lulling the lily's sleep,
Watching the shadows creep,
And the stars quiver;
Such should my measure be,
Such were my minstrelsie,
Maid of my reverie
Sacred and sweet to thee,
Or silent forever.