What silk of times sweet balm
Where the Chimera tired himself
Is worth the coils and natural cloud
You tend before the mirrors calm?
The blanks of meditating flags
Stand high along our avenue:
But Ive your naked tresses too
For burying my contented eyes.
No! The mouth cannot be sure
Of tasting anything in its bite
Unless your princely lover cares
In that mighty brush of hair
To breathe out, like a diamond,
The cry of Glory stifled there.
