Not yet the tyger
Though the tiger’s coat burns bright
And though the lamb, in darkest night
Shines with eternal purity
They do not frame thy symmetry.
For no distant deeps or skies
Can match the beauty of your eyes
No precious azure, no sapphire
Stirs in my being, such desire.
And what poetry, what art
Could paint or describe every part
That makes thee lovelier than the rest?
What mountain compares to thy breast?
And what music can contain
The harmony within thy brain?
What intelligence could grasp
The way thy soul to mine doth clasp?
When the stars put on their light
And robed the heaven’s blackest night
Did they dress themselves to see
How God has blessed the day with thee?
Thou in fearful beauty stand
The milk of heaven in thy hand
No music, prose, nor poetry
Can frame thy matchless symmetry.