What is the measure of a woman fair—

A smile, a look, an ever-fetching gaze?

Sweet saucy curls of sun-lit burnished hair,

A peerless face to every heart amaze?

A graceful carriage gladdened by the sun,

A step, a sigh, a moue, a tender swoon;

A gesture born of  limbs soft slender spun—

Smooth silken skin sheer silv’rd by the moon?

What essence pure can capture heaven’s light,

Distill its soul and stir it into song,

That every heart by scent, by sound, by sight

Beholds an angel rising from the throng?

It is a precious gift that few may know—

Still named by every grace, you mark it so.