I. <br />Thou art fair, and few are fairer <br />Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean; <br />They are robes that fit the wearer-- <br />Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion <br />Ever falls and shifts and glances <br />As the life within them dances. <br /> <br />II. <br />Thy deep eyes, a double Planet, <br />Gaze the wisest into madness <br />With soft clear fire,--the winds that fan it <br />Are those thoughts of tender gladness <br />Which, like zephyrs on the billow, <br />Make thy gentle soul their pillow. <br /> <br />III. <br />If, whatever face thou paintest <br />In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure, <br />If the fainting soul is faintest <br />When it hears thy harp’s wild measure, <br />Wonder not that when thou speakest <br />Of the weak my heart is weakest. <br /> <br />IV. <br />As dew beneath the wind of morning, <br />As the sea which whirlwinds waken, <br />As the birds at thunder’s warning, <br />As aught mute yet deeply shaken, <br />As one who feels an unseen spirit <br />Is my heart when thine is near it.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-sophia-miss-stacey/
