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.