That held in the Master's tender heart
An undisputed place.
It was a face, O God! how fair!
No words can ever paint;
More fit for heaven than for earth.
It bore the contour of a saint.
The brow was high and broad and white,
With a radiance all its own;
The cheeks, like lilies dipped in blood,
Were oft as a rose full blown.
Eyebrows dark and delicately arched,
Were penciled in Nature's play;
The ruby ripeness of her lips
Seemed never to melt away.
Her lustrous eyes, whose depths were brown,
Yet seemed a darker hue,
Were windows of a spotless soul
That scorned to be untrue.
Abundant tresses of dark brown hair
That almost swept the ground,