At Twenty-One

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.