O Her Eyes Are Amber-Fine - Dark And Deep As Wells Of Wine, While Her Smile Is Like The Noon Splendor Of A Day Of June. If She Sorrow - Lo! Her Face It Is Like A Flowery Space In Bright Meadows, Overlaid With Light Clouds And Lulled With Shade If She Laugh - It Is The Trill Of The Wayward Whippoorwill Over Upland Pastures, Heard Echoed By The Mocking-Bird In Dim Thickets Dense With Bloom And Blurred Cloyings Of Perfume. If She Sigh - A Zephyr Swells Over Odorous Asphodels And Wan Lilies In Lush Plots Of Moon-Drown'D Forget-Me-Nots. Then, The Soft Touch Of Her Hand - Takes All Breath To Understand What To Liken It Thereto! - Never Roseleaf Rinsed With Dew Might Slip Soother-Suave Than Slips Her Slow Palm, The While Her Lips Swoon Through Mine, With Kiss On Kiss Sweet As Heated Honey Is.