To A Rose-Coloured Gown

How I love you in the robes That disrobe so well your charms! Your dear breasts, twin ivory globes, And your bare sweet pagan arms.

Frail as frailest wing of bee, Fresher than the heart of rose, All the fabric delicate, free, Round your body gleams and glows,

Till from skin to silken thread, Silver shivers lightly win, And the rosy gown have shed Roses on the creamy skin.

Whence have you the mystic thing, Made of very flesh of you, Living mesh to mix and cling With your glorious body's hue?

Did you take it from the rud Of the dawn? From Venus' shell? From a breast-flower nigh to bud? From a rose about to swell?

Doth the texture have its dye From some blushing bashfulness? No--your portraits do not lie-- Beauty beauty's form shall guess!

Down you cast your garment fair, Art-dreamed, sweet Reality, Like Borghese's princess, rare For Canova's mastery!

Ah! the folds are lips of fire Sweeping round your lovely form In a folly of desire, With a weft of kisses warm!