The Rosy Hills Of Her High Breasts, Whereon, Like Misty Morning, Rests The Breathing Lace; Her Auburn Hair, Wherein, A Star Point Sparkling There, One Jewel Burns; Her Eyes, That Keep Recorded Dreams Of Song And Sleep; Her Mouth, With Whose Comparison The Richest Rose Were Poor And Wan; Her Throat, Her Form - What Masterpiece Of Man Can Picture Half Of These! She Comes! A Classic From The Hand Of God! Wherethrough I Understand What Nature Means And Art And Love, And All The Lovely Myths Thereof.