It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes
Are sweeter far to me,
Than is the light of Summer skies
To captives just set free.
It is not that the setting sun
Is tangled in thy hair,
And recks not of the course to run,
In such a silken snare.
Nor for the music of thy words,
Fair Claudia, love I thee,
Though sweeter than the songs of birds
That melody to me.
It is not that rich roses rare
Within thy garden grow,
Nor that the fairest lilies are
Less snowy than thy brow.
Nay, Claudia, 't is that every grace
In thy dear self I find;
That Heaven itself is in thy face,
And also in thy mind.