Her eyes are velvet, soft and fine,
That none can antedate;
Her hair’s fine strands seem all divine,
Her form is, oh! so

Her teeth, like driven snow, are white;
And when she wills to blush
There is no tint can equal quite
Her rounded cheek’s fine

Could I but hold a hand like that
Just once, I would not care
If afterwards I stood quite pat
Forever, on a

— Thomas Lansing Masson