The poem
I do not love thee for that fair Rich fan of thy most curious hair; Though the wires thereof be drawn Finer than threads of lawn, And are softer than the leaves On which the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, love's bowers; Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red: Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I've kissed so oft, Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech whence music still is heard; Though from those lips a kiss being taken Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee, O my fairest, For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar, which stands under Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; Though that neck be whiter far Than towers of polished ivory are.