I.

Her hair is as bright as the sunbeam's light,
And she walks with a regal grace,
And she bares full proud to the empty crowd
The wealth of her wondrous face;
And her haughty smile thus speaks the while:
"Approach me on bended knee!"
She's a beautiful star I could worship afar,
But--her love's not the love for me.


II.

Her hair is as black as the raven's back,
And her face--what a queenly one;
And her voice ripples out like the trembling shout
Of a Lark when he sings to the sun;
But her form is filled with a soul self-willed
That would lord o'er a luckless he;
Pride reigns in her breast, like snow in a nest,
And--her love's not the love for me.


III.

Her hair--what mind I the tint of her hair,
When her eyes are the tenderest blue;
And her loving face bears many a grace
Lit up with a sunny hue?
When I find--O I find, that her heart is kind--
That she goes not abroad to see
The World--or be seen. Her love, I ween,
Is the love that was made for me.