by Jean Blewett

Her eyes— upon a summer's day
God's skies are not more blue than they.

Her hair— you've seen a sunbeam bold
Made up of just such threads of gold.

Her cheek— the leaf which nearest grows
The dewy heart of June's red rose.

Her mouth— full lipped, and subtly sweet
As brier drowned in summer heat.

Her heart— December's chill and snow;
Heaven pity me, who love her so!

Last updated April 28, 2023