Her hands are all that hands should be,
And own a touch whose memory lingers.

The hue that lights her oval cheeks
Recalls the pink that tints a cherry;
Upon her chin a dimple speaks,
A disposition blithe and merry.
Her laughter ripples like a brook;
Its sound a heart of stone would soften.
Though sweetness shines in every look,
Her laugh is never loud, nor often.

Though golden locks have won renown
With bards, I never heed their raving;
The girl I love hath locks of brown,
Not tightly curled, but gently waving.
Her mouth?--Perhaps you'd term it large--
Is firmly molded, full and curving;
Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge,
But in the cause of truth unswerving.

Though little of her neck is seen,
That little is both smooth and sightly;
And fair as marble is its sheen
Above her bodice gleaming whitely.
Her nose is just the proper size,
Without a trace of upward turning.
Her shell-like ears are wee and wise,
The tongue of scandal ever spurning.