—She was a lovely one— her shape was light
And delicately flexible; her eye
Might have been black, or blue, — but it was bright,
Though beaming not on every passer-by;
'T was very modest, and a little shy.
The eyelash seemed to shade the very cheek;
That had the color of a sunset sky,
Not rosy— but a soft and heavenly streak
For which the arm might strike— the heart might break —
And a soft gentle voice, that kindly sweet
Accosted one she chanced to overtake,
While walking slowly on iambic feet,
In tones that fell as soft as heaven's own dew—
Who was it! dear young Lady, was it you?