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.