Not sweeter was the breast of Venus white, Or bloom of Helen, soft in Grecian air, Or outpoured glory of the coal-black hair That maddened Antony with fierce delight, Than beauty bursting forth to sudden sight Within our streets, and making fog-banks fair. Not all our London dreariest mists impair The glory of mist-piercing glances bright. One may meet Daphne or a Grecian maid By Thames, within some oak or beechen glade: One may find Psyche 'mid the wild streets' roar. Or, seeking not so pure and sweet a form, Clasp suddenly the breast of Venus warm Where silver ripples chime on English shore. |