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.