Would jewels 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.