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Poem by Madison Julius Cawein
The rosy hills of her high breasts, Whereon, like misty morning, rests The breathing lace; her auburn hair, Wherein, a star point sparkling there, One jewel burns; her eyes, that keep Recorded dreams of song and sleep; Her mouth, with whose comparison The richest rose were poor and wan; Her throat, her form - what masterpiece Of man can picture half of these! She comes! a classic from the hand Of God! wherethrough I understand What Nature means and Art and Love, And all the lovely Myths thereof.
Madison Julius Cawein
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