Carissima Mea

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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._

© Madison Julius Cawein