Poetics
“So say the foolish!” Say the foolish so, Love?
“Flower she is, my rose”—or else, “My very swan is she”—
Or perhaps, “Yon maid-moon, blessing earth below, Love,
That art thou!”—to them, belike: no such vain words from me.
“Hush, rose, blush! no balm like breath,” I chide it:
“Bend thy neck its best, swan,—hers the whiter curve!”
Be the moon the moon: my Love I place beside it:
What is she? Her human self,—no lower word will serve.
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