Beauty

Say not of Beauty she is good,Or aught but beautiful,Or sleek to doves' wings of the woodHer wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word's touchConsumes her like a curse;But love her not too much, too much,For that is even worse.

O, she is neither good nor bad,But innocent and wild!Enshrine her and she dies, who hadThe hard heart of a child.