Some see you in similes: as the colors of our autumn.

A spark of immortal fire from heaven, or
Pleasing as an opium dream, or when
You smile like the sun is rising.

But I see you best unrelated: with no metaphor to your name.

Your hair is not the silk of spiders,
But like your hair.
Your mouth resembles nothing so wonderful as much,
But as your own mouth.

Why should I say that you are like a slender swan at flight?

Or that you are as fragile as a lily-
Lilies are cold; lilies neither breath nor own-
They cannot fire love nor quench it.

I mean,
Every compliment is a becoming of you.