High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal <br />Some wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity; <br />A glance like water brimming with the sky <br />Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall; <br />Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral <br />The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply <br />All music and all silence held thereby; <br />Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal; <br />A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine <br />To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary; <br />Hands which for ever at Love's bidding be, <br />And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:— <br />These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er. <br />Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxi-her-gifts/
