Her hair is the gold-brown of chestnuts,
Her eyes blue as the heavenly zone,
Her skin as the snow of the lily,
When rose-blushes are over it blown;
Her lips shame the heart of carnation,
Her movements are exquisite grace,
Her voice is the sweetest of music,
And smiles lie asleep on the face
Of the woman I love. There is less of gold glint in her tresses,
A few threads of silver wove through,
The crimson of lips not so vivid,
And lighter the eyes in their blue;
Her movements more stately and grander,
Though losing no whit of their grace,
And the smiles are more patient and tender
That shine on the matronly face
Of the woman I love. Faded out all the brown and the sunshine,
Burnished silver the curls of hair shine,
In her eyes less of earth, more of heaven--
Less stained are the cheeks with life's wine;
The skin not so lily in whiteness,
Paler now the rose waves o'er them roll;
But the voice still retains all its sweetness,
And the face is illumed by the soul
Of the woman I love. Earth, keep her to bless and to brighten,
Death, send not thy stern fiat down;
And Heaven, linger long in the weaving
Strands of gold and of pearl for her crown.
There are angels enough clothed in glory--
Few given life's griefs to assuage;
And the tenderness, purity, beauty,
Are perfected and hallowed by age
In the woman I love.