Her height? Perhaps you’d deem her tall---
  To be exact, just five feet seven.
Her arching feet are not too small;
  Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven.
Slim are her hands, yet not too wee---
  I could not fancy useless fingers,
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.

In mirth and woe her voice is low,
  Her calm demeanor never fluttered;
Her every accent seems to go
  Straight to one’s heart as soon as uttered.
She ne’er coquets as other do;
  Her tender heart would never let her.
Where does she dwell? I would I knew;
  As yet, alas! I’ve never met her.