They tell me, lady! thou art fair
As pale December’s driven snow;
That thy rich curls of golden hair
Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow;
That on the coral of thy lips
Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;
And in thy deep cerulean eye
A thousand gentle graces lie;
While lofty thought, all pure as thou,
Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!