Lady, I know thine eyes are bright,
I know thy cheek is fair;
I know that beauty, like the light,
Dwells round thee, everywhere;
But vain thy charms of form and face,
For ah! alas! I know
Thy snowy bosom hides a heart,
As cold as winter's snow!
The lovely rose is often seen
And pass'd unheeded by,
When other flowers of fairer mien
Attract the gazer's eye:
But who, if called upon to pluck
The fairest flower that grows
In garden-plot, or wood, or field,
Who would not pluck the rose?
For beauty, when its charms appeal
But to one sense alone,
Is like the chisell'd block—we feel
We gaze upon a stone.
Forgive me then if I refuse
To bend the knee to one
Who like the sun is only bright,
Not warm, too, like the sun!