In the silken tresses it interweaves!
Thrice happy the mortal who once receives,
From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright,
The radiant glances of inner light,
That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves.
Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout,
Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist,
Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt,
But daintily red as if newly kist.
'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies