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WILL paint her as I see her. 
Ten times have the lilies blown. 
Since she looked upon the sun. 
And her face is lily-clear, 
Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 
Oval cheeks, encoloured faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air : 
And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 
Face and figure of a child— 
Though too calm, you think, and tender. 
For the childhood you would lend her. 
Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
Frank, obedient, waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 
Moving light as all young things — 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 
Only, free from flutterings 
Of loud mirth that scorneth measure — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure. 
Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
Which come softly—just as she, 
When she nestles at your knee. 
Quiet talk she liketh best, 
In a bower of gentle looks— 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 
