TOUCH not that maid: She is a flower, and changeth but to fade. Fragrant is she, and fair As any shape that haunts this lower air; In form as graceful and as free As honeysuckles and the lilies be; Insensible, and shrinking from caress As flowers, which you peril when you press. Gaze not on her; She is a being of another sphere. Brilliant is she, and bright As any star illuminate at night; Of stuff as sober and as fine As hers whose glory through the moon doth shine; Unliker to come down to this thy love Than any orb that ?s fixed for aye above. Heed her no more: She is a gem whose heart thou canst not bore; Glistering is she, and grand As any stone that decks a monarch?s hand; In face as free from flaw or stain As diamond from mine, or pearl from main: But she thy fire and fever never felt, For adamant can neither waste nor melt.