"…the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres,"
need not be shorn away for you. In you—
"…those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green."
All that is necessary is to "copy what in you is writ"; to place you on the stage as you are in actual life. All those ancient poets who have written of "ladies dead and lovely knights" have been dreaming of such a one as you, and—
"All their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring."
For your beauty seems to belong to all ages and to all lands. Your shade comes to visit me at night, but, I want to look upon your "shadow" in the living day, I want to see you upon the stage. Mere description of you will not suffice:
"If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'"
