although it be not wise
No star or sea or season
or sunset in the skies
or splendour beyond splendour
compares, to me, your eyes.
As snowy crystals cling to it
it seems to me more fair
than locks of gold or ebon hues
that make fools compliment and stare--
the shimm'ring shining shantung silk
of auburn rich, your hair.
What gods could melt the Winter snow
And, laughing all the while
ignite a flaming Lover's Glow
with flourishes of style
what else could make such wonder grow
But the magic of your smile
