Upon the morrow’s gentle light,
A maiden fair doth tread,
Unwitting of her visage bright,
Or grace by angels led.
Her locks, like threads of woven gold,
In wayward breezes play,
Yet knoweth not, this lass so bold,
How hearts she steals away.
Her eyes, wherein the heavens dwell,
See naught but common hue,
Blind to the charms that therein swell,
And all the world construe.
She counteth freckles, marks, and scars,
As blemish on her skin,
Yet knoweth not how wondrous are
The worlds that lie within.
Her laughter, like a silver bell,
Doth gladden all who hear,
Yet deemeth she, in shadows fell,
Her worth be less than clear.
O, would that she could see her soul
As others surely do—
A rare and precious, gleaming whole,
Of beauty ever true.
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