CLAIRINELLE'S VALENTINE.
The maiden I love is the fairest on earth,
Her laugh is the clear, joyous music of mirth;
I think of the angels whenever she sings—
She's a seraph from Heaven, but folding her wings.
The least little act that she doeth is kind;
Her goodness all springs from a beautiful mind.
I love her much more than I know how to tell;
Let her do what she will, it is always done well:
Her voice is the murmur the mild zephyr makes
As it steals through the forest and ruffles the lakes:
Her eyes are so gentle, so calm, and so blue,
That I'm sure that she's constant, and trusting, and true:
Her features are delicate, classic, and pure:
Her hair is light chestnut, and I'm almost sure
That the sunbeams that bathe it can't set themselves free:
Her teeth are like pearls from the depths of the sea.
A bee in a frolic once stung her red lip,
And left there the honey he hastened to sip:
Let her go where she will, she is always the belle,
And her name, her sweet name, is the fair Clairinelle.