Than even winter's drifting snows,
Her neck was white, while dark her eyes
As night when moonbeams shun the skies;
Her glossy locks down trickling,
Were blacker than the raven's wing,
While fresh-born pearls might even die with grief,
Out-rivalled by her more transparent teeth.
The rosy, tint-like blushes on her cheek,
Would puzzle Language, if he truth must speak.
In fact, I saw the portrait was not real,—