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Her boasted beauty shrivels and decays,
And outward show, her only gift, is gone.
Now look ye on the plain and modest guise
Of yon unlovely flower—unlovely?—no—
Not beautiful, 'tis true—not touched with hues
Like her's we late have gazed on; but so rich
In precious fragrance is that lowly one,
So loved for her sweet qualities, that I
Should woo her first amid a world of flowers;
For she is like some few beloved ones here,
Whom eyes, perchance, might slightingly pass o'er,
But whose true wisdom, gentleness, and worth,
Unchanging friendship, ever-faithful love,
And countless minor beauties of the mind,
Attach our hearts in deep affection still.
