A mouth that is itself a rose,
    And scatters roses too;
An eye that borrows from the sky
    Its sunshine and its blue;

A laugh, an echo from the song
    The lark at morning sings;
A voice — but that has sadder tones,
    And tells of tenderer things;

Auburn is her long dark hair
    With a golden shine:
Must I tell you more to know
    This true love of mine?

I might say she is so kind,
    Faithful, fond—but no!
My sweet maiden's hidden heart
    None but I may know.