Her walk is like the wind; her smile more sweet
Than sunshine, when it gilds the buds of May.
Rare words she has, and merry, like the lark;
And songs,—which were too sweet, but that sometimes
They droop and sadden like the pining flute;
And then her eyes, (soft planets,) lose their light
In bashful rain, o'er which her cloudy hair
Hangs, like the night, protecting.