SHE is not fashioned to command, <br /> Nor once, for grace, in her is shown, <br />A form that peers the lily-wand— <br /> An air the lily's self might own; <br />Not such her vaunt, tho' such enchant, <br /> Nay, make with joy the reason reel, <br />'Tis hers to bear a boon more rare,— <br /> A heart another's woe to feel. <br /> <br />Nor hers the hair that beams afar <br /> Like streams of molten gold—an eye— <br />That twinkles like the little star <br /> Attends the virgin moon on high; <br />Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt <br /> Whoe'er her gentle smile has viewed; <br />That smile would light the gloom would <br /> blight <br /> A heart with lion-nerve endued. <br /> <br />Not hers the golden tones that break <br /> Like music from the lips, the rare— <br />The dancing dimple on the cheek <br /> Accorded to the fabled fair; <br />Not such her vaunt—nay, pride might taunt <br /> Her with a lack of charms—yet oh! <br />She's to the faint and weak a saint <br /> Ordained to bless this world below.<br /><br />Joseph Skipsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/site-is-not-fashioned/
