Stella,‘ tis not your dainty head,
Your artless look, I own;
‘ Tis not your dear coquettish tread,
Or this, or that, alone;
Nor is it all your gifts combined;
‘ Tis something in your face,—
The untranslated, undefined,
Uncertainty of grace,
That taught the Boy on Ida's hill
To whom the meed was due;
All three have equal charms — but still
This one I give it to!