Less soft a Tyrian robe
Of texture fine,
Less delicate a rose
Than flesh of thine.
Whiter thy breast than snow
That virgin lies,
And deeper than the blue
Of seas thy eyes.
More golden than the fruit
Of orange trees,
Thy locks that floating lure
The satyr breeze.
Less fine of silver string
An Orphic lyre,
Less sweet than thy low laugh
That wakes desire.