An agate black thy roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of skies, No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth, Rude, reckless witchery and mirth. Looped in thy raven hair's repose, A hot aroma, one tame rose Dies envious of that beauty where,-- By being near which,--it is fair. Thy ears,--two dainty bits of song Of unpretending charm, which wrong Would j**els rich, whose restless fire Courts coarse attention,--such inspire. Slim hands, that crumple listless lace About thy white breasts' swelling grace, And falter at thy samite throat, To such harmonious efforts float. Seven stars stop o'er thy balcony Cored in taunt heaven's canopy; No moon flows up the satin night In pearl-pierced raiment spun of light. From orange orchards dark in dew Vague, odorous lips the West wind blew, Or thou, a new Angelica From Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay. Oh, stoop to me and speaking reach My soul like song, that learned low speech From some sad instrument, who knows? Or bloom,--a dulcimer or rose.