I look upon my sweetheart’s face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place.
It is not made, as others sing
Of their young loves, like ivory,
But like a wild-rose in the spring.
Her brow is low and very fair,
And o’er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair.
Beneath her brows her eyes gleam gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly—
Their wonder haunts me night and day.
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,—
Twin curves of penciled ebony,—
Within their spans contain my fate.
Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,—
So small and sweet!—it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved.
Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul’s calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin.
Of perfect form, she is not tall,—
Just higher than the heart of me,
O’er which I place her, all in all.
She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their young loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young.
Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned fragrantly,
Have woven round my heart a net.
Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay.
Albeit she be not for me,
God send her grace and grant that she
Know naught of sorrow all her days,
And help me still to sing her praise!