With which no smile could e’er compare.
’Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts which swell to meet my love,
That easy-sloping waist, that form divine,
Nor ought below, nor ought above.
’Tis not the living colours over each
By Nature’s finest pencil wrought
To shame the full-blown rose, and blooming peach,
And mock the happy painter’s thought.
No—’tis that gentleness of mind, that love