TO A YOUNG GIRL WHO SAID SHE WAS NOT BEAUTIFUL     

       It's not her hair and it's not her feet,     

       Nor the way she walks with her head held high;     

       It's not because her eye-brows meet     

       Like a bird's wings over a glimpse of sky;     

       And it isn't her voice like April bloom     

       Rustling through an orchard's gloom—     

       It's none of these; not her wide gray eye,     

       Nor her crumpled mouth like a rose-bud red     

       Round which the snows of the jasmine spread.     

  

       Though her long white hands     

       Are like lilies of Lent,     

       Palely young and purely bent     

       O'er her breast, where God stands,     

       It's none of these.     

  

       Flowers and trees     

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