Classic Poem

'T WAS not alone her simple grace,
That nobleness of brow and face,
Which nature's self supplies;
Each vein seem'd like an azure thread,
Or angel-path that heavenward led
To those sweet stars her eyes.

Her cheek — there was a soul-lit hue
Mix'd with its fairness through and through,
Like morn on clouds of pearl;
Her hair — oh, it was auburn dark,
With something of a golden spark,
That lit at times its curl.

A mind — a manner of her own —
A modesty of look and tone —
Nor cold, nor yet too warm;
That when she spoke e'en music might
Learn something to its own delight,
And snatch another charm.