'Twas not the glossy, golden flow
Of tresses richly braided,
'Twas not the dimpled rose below,
Whose soul-fed smile they shaded!

Those dark-fringed eyes of brilliant blue,
Whose glances talk in light, love,
Thy fragrant lips' deep, carmine hue,
Thy hand so soft and slight, love;

It was not these — though these excel,
In thee, all others' beauty; —
It was not these, that wove the spell,
And won my love and duty.

Thy heart is like the Jasmine-bell,
It yields its wealth of feeling;
Like perfume from the blossom's cell,
On every zephyr stealing.

Thy mind is like the Strawberry vine,
In all its bright gradations; —
The flowers — its graceful fancies shine,
The fruit — its sweet creations!

I've twined with these a Tulip rich,
Within whose heart of fire,
Thou'lt read a deep, warm passion, which
Can never change or tire!