Oh! he who fathoms those wondrous eyes
Will see the joys of Paradise.
A crimson little rose her mouth
Exhales the memories of the South;
And when its petals gently move,
Breathing some tender word of love,
No angel’s voice at gates of bliss
Hath promise to compare with this.
Her brow a page of vellum fair,
’Twere vain to seek for tracery there;