That swim with pleasure and delight,
Nor those heavenly arches which arise
O’er each of them to shade their light.
’Tis not that hair which plays with every wind
And loves to wanton round thy face,
Now straying round thy forehead, now behind,
Retiring with insidious grace.
’Tis not that lovely range of teeth so white,
As new-shorn sheep, equal and fair;
Nor e’en that gentle smile, the heart’s delight,