I painted her a gushing thing—
Her years perhaps a score;
I little thought to find them
At least two dozen more!
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curling auburn head;
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn grown to red!
I painted her a lip and cheek
In colour like the rose;
I little thought the selfsame hue
Extended to her nose!
I dreamed of rounded features—
A smile of ready glee—
But it was not fat I wanted,
Nor a grin I hoped to see!
She boxed my ears this morning—
They tingled very much—
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch:
And if I were to settle how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!
She has the bear’s ethereal grace,
The bland hyena’s laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe:
I love her still—believe it—
Though my heart its passion hides;
She’s all my fancy painted her,
But oh! how much besides!
March 15th, 1862.