There's a sparkle in her eye
That no millionnaire can buy.
If they think so, let them try—
She's divine.
There's a blush upon her cheek
Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke,
Like red willows by the creek,
Or like wine.
She has roses in her hair.
It was I who put them there.
Really, did I ever dare—
Is she mine?
Or is it all a dream,—
Idle poet's empty theme
Put in words that make it seem
Superfine?
No; for see upon her hand
There's a little golden band,—
Filigree work, understand,
Like a vine;
And a perfect solitaire
Fits upon it. The affair
Cost two hundred. I don't care!
She is mine.