Her beauty was too great for words to bear,

For of those features, none could stand a peer;

A visage that would make all stop to stare

When her sweet raptured spirit floated near;

Porcelain countenance hued like clouds above,

Bright azure eyes of pure cerulean blue,

Sweet voice more gentle than a lulling dove—

By poet’s hand, an angel’s billet-doux.

What prompted gods to give her robes divine

While others oft are clad in common tweed?

Why is one floret blessed by bloom sublime

Where others share the cast of common weed?

What chance remains to question heaven’s grace …

When heart lies captive to that wondrous face.