Three centuries old, and I would sip and taste,
With long-delaying lips a draught divine;
And, peering o’er the brim in her blue eyes
Slow-misting, and voluptuous, she would rise,
And stoop to me, and I would clasp her waist,
And kiss her mouth, and shake her hanging curls—
And in her coy despite undo her zone of pearls!
Oh, Poesy! my spirits crownéd queen,
I would that thou couldst in the flesh be seen
The shape of perfect loveliness thou art