My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams. - Alfred Austin

English maidens are, in certain respects, to Italian maidens as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine.

One can put up with, indeed more than put up with, a certain amount of technical carelessness in Poetry, provided it be in other respects of a very high order, as not unoften, for instance, in Shakespeare and Byron. But similar blemishes in a picture would be all but fatal to it in the estimation of connoisseurs, since it would be the first thing that struck them in it.

Doth logic in the lily hide,
And where's the reason in the rose?