BLUE are thine eyes,
Beaming and tender,
Shining as skies
Shine in September.
Throwing divine
Love-speaking glances,
Then bright and fine
As tempered lances.
Soft is thy voice,
Dulcet and low;
Lips having choice
Words to bestow.
Like flowing rhymes,
Mellow and grave,
Sounding like chimes
Over the wave.
Rare is thy smile,
Mocking yet sweet,
Showing no guile,
Void of deceit.
Ardent to few,
Simple and kind,
Thoughts pure and true,
Wayward in mind.
Beautiful tresses
Soft to behold,
Sunshine caresses
Turning to gold.
Sensitive brow,
Little round throat,
Over these now,
Perfumed they float.
Wonderful hand,
Full of expression,
None can withstand
When in possession.
From clever hands,
However small,
Genius demands
Great works should fall.
Step of decision,
Swift and so light,
Full of precision,
Bearing upright.
Proud, erect form,
Firm, yet like slender
Ripe grain unshorn
Late in September.
[This is No. XII of Jane Paxton Smieton's Poems and Ballads]