AN agate black thy roguish eyes
Claim no proud lineage of skies,
No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,
Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.
Looped in thy raven hair's repose,
A hot aroma, one tame rose
Dies envious of that beauty where,—
By being near which,—it is fair.
Thy ears,—two dainty bits of song
Of unpretending charm, which wrong