It have I never seen, but well I know Beneath the little billowy bodice hides Costlier treasure than the deep can show: How white it is I cannot realise, Because her hands are whiter than the snow In sunny winters that half-blinds the eyes, Vesting the swelling hills in satin so. Her waist is fitting for so rare a maid; Methinks it was not fashioned for an arm; In whatsoever garment 'tis arrayed Too dainty seems it for maternal harm. The dimples of her cheek and of her chin, The blue veins of her brow, her lashes long, Her faultless arms, her fingers lithe and thin-- Sometimes a ring appearing them among, Looks like the little golden coronal Round which the petals of the lily cluster: Her sloping shoulders, and her feet so small, That hardly can sufficient courage muster, Even in the circumlocutory shoe, To show themselves in their entirety, But like a maid's first love-thoughts from the view Of her own eyes retire most trepidly. The limbs above them! Hush, the moonlight pales Before their splendour white as sunlight seems. Her hair! The brightest imagery fails To be a proxy for its rippling streams, Like shimmering wavelets when the sun has set Where his pale golden glory lingers yet. When I am with her I need not to think; For if she silent sit, or walk, or stand, My faculties do altogether link And chain my eyes upon her by command Of her magnetic power; or if she speak In tones that Mercury might imitate, Or through her lips a sounding streamlet break With rush of sweetest melody, create Within the coral, pearled grotto of her mouth In tones that Philomel could not surpass; Then does deep hearing cause a summer drouth In sense's welling founts, whose waters pass Into the yawning ocean of my ears, Entranced as by the music of the spheres. Cophetua's bride was humbler than she is; Yet is she humblest of the maids I know. Mage Hymen will transmute girl to princess; My empress love enthroned her long ago. Scipio. I know this wonder. Felice. Which the Prince praises? Scipio. Ay. She is indeed a miracle. Her mother is a woman; and there are those who will swear she was once no higher than her grandam's armchair. It is reported that she eats when she is hungry; her liquor, too, most commonly runs down her throat. Rumour says she is of no kin to graymalkin, for without light she cannot see; yet can her eyes pierce a whinstone as woundily as another's: that she can hear in the night, when she has been known to sleep; that she is often stirring in the day; that when she talks, her organ of utterance is her tongue. Those who should know best will certify that her mouth stands across between her nose and her chin. But the oddest thing about her is her gait; for, look you, when she walks, as the old song goes, one leg or t'other will always be first. Lo, our shepherd has gathered the flock of his thoughts: listen, while he