Jean Blewett (1862–1934)

HER eyes—upon a summer’s day

God’s skies are not more blue than they.

Her hair—you’ve seen a sunbeam bold

Made up of just such threads of gold.

Her cheek—the leaf which nearest grows

The dewy heart of June’s red rose.

Her mouth—full lipped, and subtly sweet

As brier drowned in summer heat.

Her heart—December’s chill and snow;

Heaven pity me, who love her so!