She walks in beauty, like the night
     Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that`s best of dark and bright
      Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
	Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.


One shade the more, one ray the less,
       Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
      Or softly lightens o`er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.


And on that cheek, and o`er that brow,
     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
      But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
	A heart whose love is innocent!

                          LORD BYRON

AMARANTHA, sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin`d
As its calm ravisher the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th` East,
To wanton o`er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clue of golden thread
Most excellently ravellèd.

Do not then wind up that light
In ribbands, and o`ercloud in night;
Like the Sun in `s early ray,
but shake your head and scatter day.

                        RICHARD LOVELACE    

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition sent
To be a moment`s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight`s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature`s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

                          WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods could speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand,
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Loves likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile noise
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay;
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways).

                          THEODORE ROETHKE