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From The Wit and Humor of America, edited by Marshall P. Wilder, Volume III, New York and London: Funk and Wagnalls and Company, 1911; pp. 544-545.




Her height? Perhaps you’d deem her tall —

To be exact, just five feet seven.

Her arching feet are not too small;

Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven.

Slim are her hands, yet not too wee — 

I could not fancy useless fingers,

Her hands are all that hands should be,

And own a touch whose memory lingers.

The hue that lights her oval cheeks

Recalls the pink that tints a cherry;

Upon her chin a dimple speaks,

A disposition blithe and merry.

Her laughter ripples like a brook;

Its sound a heart of stone would soften.

Though sweetness shines in every look,

Her laugh is never loud, nor often.

Though golden locks have won renown

With bards, I never heed their raving;

The girl I love hath locks of brown,

Not tightly curled, but gently waving.

Her mouth? — Perhaps you’d term it large — 

Is firmly molded, full and curving;

Her quiet lips are Cupid’s charge,

But in the cause of truth unswerving.


Though little of her neck is seen,

That little is both smooth and sightly;

And fair as marble is its sheen

Above her bodice gleaming whitely.

Her nose is just the proper size,

Without a trace of upward turning.

Her shell-like ears are wee and wise,

The tongue of scandal ever spurning.

In mirth and woe her voice is low,

Her calm demeanor never fluttered;

Her every accent seems to go

Straight to one’s heart as soon as uttered.

She ne’er coquets as others do;

Her tender heart would never let her.

Where does she dwell? I would I knew;

As yet, alas! I’ve never met her.

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