I Will Not Call Her Fair

I will not call her fair,
For that all women are,
Shady or sunny, dim of eye or blight:
But tell me, tell me where
Is one of tint so clear,
Unless it may be one who bathes in upper light.
The fair above their kind,
Shallow of heart and mind,
Share with the fragile flower and senseless stone
Their richer tints; we find
No vestige left behind:
She moves the distant breast, and fills the whole alone,