There lurks no charm in the miser’s gold,
Or the heft of the writer’s pen.
I wear no frown for the clod below,
No cringe for the clown above;
For I tread but the path where the roses blow,
And I pin one bud to her breast of snow,
And I weave a glorious wreath to crown
My goddess of Peace and Love.
[42]
]Her liquid eyes are a hazel grey
And her lips are ruby red,