On her neck the small face buoyant like a bell-flower on its bed.
Lyric.
There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest;
And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest;
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre
Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,
Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble;
Then her voice's music … call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!
A Blot on the 'Scutcheon.
How twinks thine eye, my Love,