(Expanded From An Epigram Of Piron.) Stella, 'Tis Not Your Dainty Head, Your Artless Look, I Own; 'Tis Not Your Dear Coquettish Tread, Or This, Or That, Alone; Nor Is It All Your Gifts Combined; 'Tis Something In Your Face,-- The Untranslated, Undefined, Uncertainty Of Grace, That Taught The Boy On Ida'S Hill To Whom The Meed Was Due; All Three Have Equal Charms--But Still This One I Give It To!