The rose is on its snowy cheek,
Fresh as when embalmed with dew,
And O, its eyes are like the stars,
’Tween the soft clouds glancing through!
The ruby lip that mutely smiles,
The waving of the curls of gold,
The changing glances of the eye,
All shadow forth bright thoughts untold.
I know that in its sinless breast,
Embowered in the little heart,