Carissima Mea.

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.