I look upon my lady's face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
It is not made, as others sing Of their dear loves, like ivory, But like a wild rose in the spring: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her brow is low and very fair, And o'er it, smooth and shadowy, Lies deep the darkness of her hair: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Beneath her brows her eyes are gray, And gaze out glad and fearlessly, Their wonder haunts me night and day: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate, Twin curves of pencilled ebony, Within their spans contain my fate: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her mouth, that was for kisses curved, So small and sweet, it well may be That it for me is yet reserved: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Between her hair and rounded chin, Calm with her soul's calm purity, There lies no shadow of a sin: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Of perfect form, she is not tall, Just higher than the heart of me, Where'er I place her, all in all: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
She is not shaped, as some have sung Of their dear loves, like some slim tree, But like the moon when it is young: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her hands, that smell of violet, So white and fashioned gracefully, Have woven round my heart a net: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Yea, I have loved her many a day; And though for me she may not be, Still at her feet my love I lay: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Albeit she be not for me, GOD send her grace and grant that she Know nought of sorrow all her days: Therefore it is I sing her praise.
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