O Beautiful, O Gracious Lady

What are these roses like? Oh, they are rare.
So balmy pink
I will not shrink
Them to the Graces to compare,
When in gay dance the laughing triad link.
When the round, lifted arms were bare.
And just about
The elbow's pout
The warm flesh glows
Into a flower, incomparable rose:
Such fluctuating stealth
Of light doth interfuse
Their virgin health.
In its soft buoyance, as indues
You, O ye roses, with your heavenly hues.