The rose is not the rose unless thou see;
Without good wine, spring is not spring for me.
Without thou tulip cheek, the gracious air
Of gardens and of meadows is not fair.
The rosy limbs, unless I may embrace,
Lose for my longing eyes full half their grace;
Nor does thy scarlet mouth with honey drip
Unless I taste it's honey, lip to lip.
Vainly the cypress in the zephyr sways,
Unless the nightingale be there to praise.
Nothing the mind imagines can be fair,
Except the picture that it makes of her.
