She Moves With Grace

SHE moves with grace, like one in love
    With love itself and all that’s lush;
And when the Dryades above
    Unloose her from the sage and brush,
She descends like the milk-white dove
    With the notes of a singing thrush.

With golden locks, from fair to fair,
    And liquid, limpid eyes so blue,
None is like her or can compare
    To her wet mist, which can imbue:
For she repairs those in scorched air,--
    Her mists refresh and then renew.

When shown as Nephelai and muse
    With the profound grace of a saint,
(Which no man can therefore refuse
    Or with mean words tarnish or taint)
Then let all Creatures freely choose
    To honor her without constraint.