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.