Carissima Mea.
I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
It is not made, as others sing
Of their dear loves, like ivory,
But like a wild rose in the spring:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her brow is low and very fair,
And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly,
Their wonder haunts me night and day:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,
Twin curves of pencilled ebony,
Within their spans contain my fate:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,
So small and sweet, it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul's calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Of perfect form, she is not tall,
Just higher than the heart of me,
Where'er I place her, all in all:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.