And all the living treasures of her face.
The Parian forehead parting clustered hair,
The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow;
The witching archness, and the grace so rare,
So magical, it charmed I knew not how.
Light was her footstep as the silent flakes
Of falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn;
Her dimple, like the print the berry makes,
In some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn.
To snatch her passing accents as she spoke,