Think not her face is patched with pink,
Or is a jumbled mess to seem,
As berries red, that neither sink
Nor swim in shallows of pale cream -
Oh, no! her face it is not white,
Nor red, nor brown, nor dark, nor fair,
Nor yellow sure, though all the light
Of gold and yellow flower meets there;
So radiant is my loved one's face
There's not one colour there to trace.

I know not where the light turns on:
Whether that wondrous ball of hair
And golden fire reflects upon
Her cheeks, creating sunbeams there,
I cannot tell; but it is sweet
Back of that column white as snow
To let my fingers link and meet
Under her hair falls, and to know
Her mine; where it feels warm; a nest
Just emptied by the birds at rest.

A thousand sunbeams on each cheek
Are crowding eager to o'erleap
Her blue eyes' fence rails, where they seek
To drown themselves in pools so deep;
And leapt them seems that many have,
Yet, strange to say, not one could drown,
But may be seen afloat the wave,
Bobbing their bodies up and down;
And not a beam that leapt the fence
Lost its soul's light in consequence.