How the poets love to boast,
Of all those things they find fair.
But from Western shore to Eastern Coast,
I've found no beauty which compares.
And what to say of your soul?
When I know no words would do it just,
Neither angel wings or halo,
Would flatter my muse quite enough.
If the flowering fields of May could sing,
What wonderful secrets would they betray?
I would be a fool to think,
Yours is not the name they'll say.
Yet of all the words I could write,
Would all be outdone by your smile.
