The winning smile about her lips,
Child-simple and yet woman-wise,
Her shining hair, her modest guise,
All come in turn; each fades and slips.
I try to fix them, but in vain;
They waver, and yet will not fuse,
Howe’er imagination strain,
To form the face that it would feign—
Till on a sudden, as I muse
There comes a thought of her dear hands,