Were all the women of the world to come
And droop their languorous hair about my heart,
They could not hold it in those nets so fine,
And pleading with lips lyrical or dumb,
Pleading with excess of all amorous art,
They could not win the kisses that are thine.

If Helen came, her white limbs hung with gold,
And Deirdre with dim visionary eyes,
And Grania, flame-haired, fiery with command;
If Hero came—reluctant once of old—
And she who all too long with Romeo lies,
And she who led Dante heavenward by the hand,

They could not make me fain of their fain lips
Nor lure me to the languor of warm breasts
With any soft compulsion of white arms,
And delicate dim touch of finger tips
And smouldering eyes where passion leaps and rests
Would leave me cold and lose the name of charms.

Nay, Solomon’s Love and Anthony’s Desire,
Heloise and frail Francesca, and their queen
Immortal Aphrodite, whom I praise,
Naked before me could not touch with fire
The calm pulse of my blood, for I have seen
Beauty within thy beauty for all days.